THE  JOURNAL  OF  A  RECLUSE 


S 


^  // 


JUDITH 
From  the  painting  by  C.  Allori 


THE    JOURNAL 

OF    A 

RECLUSE 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE 
ORIGINAL  FRENCH 

F'f  $C 


$«?r; 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1909 
BY  THOMAS  Y.   CROWELL  &  CO. 

Published,    September, 
Eighth  Edition 


CONTENTS 

PART  I— SUNRISE  AND  NOON 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

TRANSLATOR'S  PREFACE v. 

I.  EARLY    MEMORIES 3 

II.  A    HAPPY    ACCIDENT 17 

III.  A  TUTOR  OF  THE  OLD  REGIME 26 

IV.  LOOKING  FORWARD 36 

V.  ON   FOREIGN   SHORES 47 

VI.  A  FABLE  FOR  COMMUNISTS  AND  DREAMERS  OF  HU- 
MAN  PERFECTIBILITY 53 

VII.  STILL  LEARNING 58 

VIII.  A  WOMAN  IN  REVOLT 63 

IX.  THE    OLD,    OLD    PATHWAY,   JUST   WIDE   ENOUGH 

FOR  Two 83 

X.  TRAVELING  AGAIN 92 

XI.  COMPLICATIONS 101 

XII.  EN  ROUTE  FOR  AMERICA 109 

XIII.  UNDER  THE  ROD 121 

XIV.  LA  VITA  NUOVA 132 

XV.  A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE 137 

PART  II— AFTERNOON  AND  EVENING 

I.   A   VOICE   FROM    THE    PAST 157 

II.  DREAMING    ONCE    MOKE 186 

III.  TRYING  TO  KEEP  STEP  TOGETHER 195 

IV.  A  FIRE-SIDE  CHAT 206 

V.  STORM  AND  STRESS 212 

VI.  THE    SURPRISE 226 


2135457 


iv  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

VII.  THE  RELAPSE 230 

VIII.  DARKNESS 239 

IX.  DAWN 250 

X.  AMONG    THE    SCHOOL-MASTERS     .     .          ...  256 

XI.  AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  ALTRUISM 274 

XII.  REUNION 287 

XIII.  EDUCATING  A  GIRL 293 

XIV.  A  BROKEN  SPIRIT 307 

XV.  BOOKS  AND  TRAVEL 313 

XVI.  TEMPESTE    D'ANIME 319 

XVII.  LOOKING  AT  PICTURES 326 

XVIII.  SEED-TIME  AND  HARVEST 329 


TRANSLATOR'S   PREFACE 

Two  years  ago,  I  was  traveling  for  my  pleasure,  and 
incidentally  for  my  profit,  along  the  Pacific  Coast  of 
the  United  States,  and  found  myself  in  a  small  town 
situated  on  Bellingham  Bay,  in  the  State  of  Washing- 
ton. The  town  is  probably  not  above  fifty  or  sixty 
years  old;  and  perhaps  for  a  long  time  will  retain  a 
certain  raw,  unfinished  appearance  of  youth,  owing  to 
its  situation  too  near  Seattle  and  Vancouver,  to  hope 
to  have  any  commercial  importance.  However,  two  or 
three  saw-mills,  and  a  factory  for  canning  salmon,  give 
it  a  few  internal  resources,  sufficient  to  keep  it  alive. 

One  day,  walking  along  a  railroad  leading  out  of 
town,  skirting  the  bay  and  traversing  a  beautiful  forest, 
my  attention  was  caught  by  a  handsome  shrub,  which 
I  had  seen  too  often  in  Scotland  and  Ireland  to  mis- 
take for  an  indigenous  plant.  It  was  the  broom,  bright 
with  yellow  blossoms,  and  a  magnificent  specimen  at 
that.  It  grew  on  a  cliff,  at  some  distance  above  my 
head.  Being  a  botanist  in  a  mild  sort  of  way,  my  curi- 
osity was  excited.  It  had  been  planted  there,  no  doubt, 
but  by  whom?  Probably  there  was  a  house  near  by — 
the  home  of  some  emigrant.  I  was  thirsty;  I  might 
ask  for  a  drink  and  casually  learn  how  the  broom  had 
found  its  way  across  the  sea  to  bloom  so  brilliantly  on 
the  edge  of  an  American  forest. 

The  bank  was  steep,  but  I  made  my  way  to  the  top 
without  difficulty;  and  discovered,  as  I  surmised,  a 
fence  not  many  feet  beyond  the  bank,  and  behind  it  a 
small  log  hut.  No  smoke  came  from  the  chimney,  and 
the  long  grass  about  it  seemed  untrodden.  I  climbed 
the  fence  and  approached  the  house.  Then  I  noticed 


vi  TRANSLATOR'S   PREFACE 

that  the  door,  concealed  by  the  projecting  logs,  was 
open;  and  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  woman's  dress.  I 
knocked  twice  at  the  door  before  the  woman  heard  me ; 
and  when  she  rose  with  a  start  and  came  towards  me, 
I  saw  that  her  eyes  were  red  and  swollen  with  weep- 
ing. She  was  a  beautiful  woman,  past  her  first  youth, 
but  still  in  the  full  splendor  of  a  perfect  maturity.  That 
she  was  not  an  ordinary  woman,  I  saw  at  the  first 
glance;  and  when  she  spoke,  her  voice  had  that  unmis- 
takable accent  which  accompanies  all  real  culture. 

I  apologized  for  my  intrusion,  and  told  her  that  a 
long  walk  in  the  sunlight  had  made  me  thirsty,  and 
that  I  had  ventured  to  call  for  a  drink  of  water. 

"There  is  no  water  in  the  house  at  present,"  she 
answered,  "  but  if  you  go  down  the  bank,  out  at  that 
little  gate  yonder,  you  will  find  a  spring  of  cool  water 
and  a  tin  cup  on  a  ledge  of  rock  near  by." 

"Thank  you,  Madame;  but  before  I  go,  may  I  ask 
you  how  that  broom  happens  to  grow  just  outside  the 
fence  yonder?  I  have  never  seen  it  except  in  Europe, 
and  I  do  not  think  that  it  is  a  native  of  this  country." 

"  You  are  quite  right ;  he  planted  it  here,  from  seeds 
brought  from  Scotland.  Pardon  me,  I  mean  my  uncle. 
Stop — are  you  in  a  hurry?  You  look  like  a  man  of 
judgment,  of  education ;  and  see  here " — she  spoke 
hastily,  the  color  coming  and  going  in  her  cheeks — "  I 

have  here "  she  turned  over  the  pages  of  a  pile  of 

note-books  on  the  table  before  her,  then  without  finish- 
ing her  sentence,  asked  abruptly: 

"  Are  you  a  reader  ?     Do  you  know  good  books  ?  " 

"  I  have  lived  among  them  all  my  life.  I  ought  to 
know  them.  At  any  rate,  I  have  definite  opinions  about 
them,  and  know  what  I  like." 

"Exactly,"  she  said  with  a  little  note  of  pleasure. 
"  I  thought  so.  Isn't  it  strange  how  one  sometimes 
knows  people  at  the  very  first  glance?  I,  too,  know 
what  pleases  me, — books  that  leave  a  sweet  taste  in 
my  mouth — that  without  asceticism  sharpen  my  sense 


TRANSLATOR'S   PREFACE  vii 

of  duty — that  like  mountain  airs,  filled  with  the  odor 
of  the  pines,  blow  over  me,  refreshing,  tonic — and  here's 
a  book  like  that."  She  passed  her  hand  caressingly 
over  the  note-books  as  she  spoke.  "Do  you  read 
French?" 

"Yes,  I  passed  my  boyhood  in  France." 
"  Good !  "  Her  whole  face  brightened,  her  eyes  flashed 
with  pleasure;  then  in  her  low,  rapid,  musical  voice, 
she  told  me  that  these  note-books,  written  by  her  uncle 
who  had  died  two  years  before,  had  only  recently  been 
found  by  her;  that,  in  fact,  she  had  just  finished  her 
first  reading  of  them.  "  And,"  she  continued,  *'  he 
seems  to  me  living  again  in  them,  just  as  I  knew  him; 
sensitive  as  a  woman,  yet  so  strong  and  manly;  and  I 
cannot  [consent  that  he  shall  be  buried  here  in  this 
poor  little  hut,  or  that  I  alone  should  know  him  who 
ought  to  be  known  and  loved  the  wide  world  over. 
Surely,  when  he  left  this  record  of  himself,  he  did  not 
mean  that  it  should  perish,  and  it  shall  not.  Think 
of  the  wretched  books  that  flood  the  country  every 
year — poor  little  commonplace,  wheezing,  asthmatic 
books,  in  which  their  authors  moan  about  the  air's  sti- 
fling them,  when  it  is  their  own  weak  lungs  that  won't 
work  right;  books  made  and  read  by  women  who  have 
never  lived,  only  dreamed  about  living — full  of  romantic 
nonsense,  or  else  sickly,  hysterical,  striving  after  impas- 
sioned expression  and  only  falling  into  flat  lubricity; 
aphoristic  books,  made  by  gathering  up  all  the  loose 
ends  of  thought  in  the  century;  some  daring,  some 
absurd,  some  insane,  some  only  wicked,  a  few  noble; 
all  spewed  out  in  a  sort  of  hodge-podge  that  smells  of 
Schopenhauer  and  Petronius  Arbiter;  inane,  feebly 
splashing  books  full  of  descriptions  of  furniture,  clothes 
and  complexions,  dull  and  silly  as  the  woman's  page  of 
a  daily  newspaper.  Why  shouldn't  there  issue  from  the 
press  once  in  a  while  a  book  with  a  soul,  a  book  that 
has  red  blood  in  its  veins  and  a  heart  that  beats  sound 
and  strong?  Nobody  will  read  it?  People  want  the 


viii  TRANSLATOR'S    PREFACE 

mise  en  sctne,  the  decorations  and  all  the  accessories, 
and  are  indifferent  about  the  acting?  Not  the  people 
who  are  worth  while! — the  mob,  if  you  like,  yes!  But 
we  aren't  all  mob.  There  are  still  a  few  of  us  who 
care  more  about  the  clear  blaze  of  the  fire  on  the  hearth 
than  for  the  way  in  which  the  andirons  are  molded.  I 
am  sure  that  I  am  not  blinded  by  my  affection.  Read 
that  page  and  tell  me  whether  it  does  not  live." 

I  read  it,  and  felt  as  she  did,  that  real  life  had 
gone  to  the  making  of  it. 

She  questioned  me  about  myself  and  my  pursuits, 
absorbed  evidently  in  one  idea.  I  was  able  to  answer 
her  inquiries  satisfactorily.  The  book,  singularly 
enough,  was  written  entirely  in  French.  Whether  the 
language  had  lent  itself  most  readily  to  the  author,  or 
whether  he  had  employed  it  as  a  sort  of  veil  to  hide 
even  from  himself  the  nudity  of  his  thought,  it  is  im- 
possible to  say.  At  any  rate,  he  used  it  like  a  master; 
and  the  present  English  version  given  to  the  reader 
must  necessarily  lack  much  of  the  beautiful,  energetic 
clearness  of  the  original. 

"  I  cannot  translate  it  myself,"  she  continued.  "  It 
would  break  my  heart  again,  as  it  has  done  in  the 
reading  of  it.  Besides,  my  very  wish  to  do  it  well 
would  make  me  stumble  and  halt.  Then,  too,  I  do  not 
belong  to  myself.  I  have  a  husband  and  five  children 
who  need  me;  and  this  dear  one  needs  me  no  longer. 
Could  you  undertake  it,  or  do  you  know  someone  who 
Could  do  it  well  ?  " 

In  short,  I  consented  to  translate  the  book  into  Eng- 
lish, after  consultation  with  her  husband,  who  confirmed 
the  good  opinion  of  me  which  the  wife  had  so  hastily 
formed.  He  is  a  chemist  of  note,  and  a  gentleman  in 
every  way  worthy  of  her.  I  stayed  a  week  with  them 
in  their  beautiful  home,  at  some  distance  from  the 
little  hut  in  which  I  first  met  the  wife ;  and  I  hope  that 
it  is  not  presumption  to  say  that  the  friendship  there 
formed  will  last  throughout  our  lives. 

I  could  not  at  once  undertake  the  translation,  owing 


TRANSLATOR'S    PREFACE  ix 

to  prior  engagements;  and  it  was  decided  that  a  care- 
ful copy  of  the  original  should  be  sent  to  me  later. 
After  mature  consideration,  we  came  to  feel  that  the 
book  had  nothing  to  say  in  the  author's  name  that  was 
not  equally  valuable  under  any  other  name;  and  that, 
as  some  with  whom  his  life  had  been  most  intimately 
associated  were  still  living,  it  was  altogether  best  and 
most  fitting  that  the  real  names  should  be  suppressed, 
and  fictitious  ones  substituted  for  them.  It  is  the  sort 
of  semi-obscurity  which  he  himself  would  have  best 
liked. 

Upon  the  back  of  each  one  of  the  eight  note-books 
which  comprise  the  original  manuscript  is  written 
"  Le  Journal  d'un  Reclus";  yet  in  the  strict  sense  of 
the  word  this  man  was  no  recluse;  on  the  contrary,  his 
life  was  rich  in  contact  with  that  of  others;  but  there 
was  in  it  that  subtle  aloofness  created  by  destiny  which 
makes  it  possible  for  a  human  life  to  flow  silently 
among  other  lives  without  contracting  their  color  or 
taking  their  course ;  just  as  the  Gulf  Stream  threads  its 
blue  way  through  the  ocean  unchanged  by  the  waters 
that  surround  it.  It  was  written  without  any  division 
into  chapters,  and  I  have  taken  the  liberty  to  subdivide 
it,  for  the  convenience  of  the  reader. 

This  book  is  the  story  of  a  wounded  heart,  searching1 
its  cure  in  solitude  and  labor;  the  story  of  a  quick 
brain  capable  of  thinking  for  itself;  of  a  strong  char- 
acter that  finds  the  best  solution  of  life's  problems  in 
the  words,  growth,  work,  and  duty;  the  story  of  a 
scholar  who  finds  rich  solace  in  books  and  study,  and 
judges  wisely  what  he  reads. 

The  mere  story  of  his  life  may  possibly  interest  a 
few  readers  who  will  not  otherwise  care  for  the  book, 
for  it  is  not  devoid  of  incident  or  romance;  but  to 
those  who  love  to  sound  the  great  questions  of  human 
life — the  mission  of  grief,  the  aim  of  culture,  the  true 
use  of  life — the  book  will  speak  in  the  voice  of  a 
friend,  a  rare,  new  companion  whose  acquaintance  they 
will  be  glad  to  make. 


x  TRANSLATOR'S   PREFACE 

Here  was  a  man  who  dared  to  look  into  the  abyss, 
and  who  dared  to  say  to  the  shadows  of  it:  I  will  live 
with  you,  believing  that  the  sunshine  will  one  day  pene- 
trate here;  a  man  whose  mind  rose  above  all  petty 
short-sighted  systems  of  philosophy,  and  knew  how  to 
accept  the  unknowable  without  flattering  his  self-love 
by  giving  fine  names  to  his  ignorance.  Enlightened  by 
sorrow,  he  grew  wise  without  asceticism,  indulgent 
without  weakness,  tender  without  demanding  tenderness 
in  return,  broad  without  losing  the  limitations  of  indi- 
viduality, a  philosopher  without  ceasing  to  be  a  man. 
He  knew  how  to  renounce  happiness  without  despising 
it,  and  how  to  find  joy  in  the  smile  of  an  infant,  or 
the  flight  of  a  bird.  His  old  age  was  more  beautiful 
and  happier  than  his  youth;  for  his  life  was  a 
ceaseless  growth,  and  with  the  fruits  of  his  rich 
experience,  he  knew  how  to  enrich  others.  He  began 
as  we  all  do  by  asking  of  life  all  or  nothing,  and  he 
finished  by  understanding  what  some  of  us  never  do, 
why  something  is  not  only  better  than  nothing,  but 
better  than  all. 

In  this  simple  story  of  his  life,  told  without  any  at- 
tempt to  produce  a  work  of  art,  he  has  produced  a  book 
that  will  be  especially  suggestive  and  valuable  to  all 
thoughtful  men  and  women  to  whose  care  the  educa- 
tion of  the  young  is  entrusted.  Receiving  in  his  youth 
an  exceptional  mental  training,  endowed  by  nature  with 
the  shrinking,  sensitive  temperament  of  the  artist,  with- 
out the  artist's  creative  gift,  capable  of  acute  suffering 
and  acute  joy,  finding  himself  out  of  harmony  with  the 
requirements  of  competitive  struggle  in  commercial  life, 
he  did  not  sink  into  a  mere  puling  sentimentalist,  or 
harden  into  a  sneering  cynic;  he  found,  or  rather,  made 
a  place  for  himself,  independent  and  helpful;  and 
worked  out  a  clear,  sane  view  of  life,  which  he  ex- 
presses in  many  a  terse,  wholesome  and  tonic  aphorism. 

For  this  reason,  his  book  is  destined  to  live  more 
than  a  summer  season.  It  does  not  glitter  with  bril- 
liant paradoxes  that  flatter  the  surface  intelligence  and 


TRANSLATOR'S    PREFACE  xi 

tickle  the  senses,  without  feeding  the  heart.  It  is  thick- 
sown  with  the  truths  we  live  by,  not  the  semi-truths  by 
which  we  amuse  ourselves.  Its  atmosphere  is  wholly 
an  outdoor  one.  The  wind  blows  through  it:  sunlight, 
not  candle-light,  shines  there;  and  the  air  is  sweet  with 
the  odor  of  pines  and  wild  flowers. 

It  will  speak  in  no  unmistakable  tones  to  those  who 
suffer,  who  think,  who  aspire;  for  its  author  missed 
none  of  the  deep  experiences  of  life.  He,  too,  had  to 
walk  in  darkness  for  a  season  and  grope  for  light. 
Tears  glisten  on  the  pages  of  his  book.  It  would  not 
be  human  without  them;  but  it  is  not  water-soaked. 
It  preaches  no  sniveling  gospel  of  despair.  It  recog- 
nizes the  beauty  and  strength  of  self-possession,  and 
the  weakness  and  slavery  of  passion.  The  author  does 
not  hug  his  chains,  gild  them  with  illusions,  and  call 
them  ornaments.  He  is  not  transformed  by  his  desires 
into  a  monster  of  colossal  egotism  who  assumes  for 
himself  a  title  of  superiority  and  the  right  to  be  a  law 
unto  himself.  He  recognizes  the  profound  moral  truth 
that  whoever  arrogates  to  himself  the  title  of  super- 
human, ends  by  becoming  inhuman.  His  heart  is  too 
big,  too  warm  to  wish  for  a  moment  to  break  the  tie 
which  unites  him  to  his  kind. 

The  style  of  the  book  in  its  original  French  is  easy, 
rich,  and  limpid  as  a  mountain  stream.  The  author  is 
not  of  those  who  mistake  muddiness  for  depth;  nor  is 
he  of  those  who,  for  want  of  thought,  fall  into  long 
and  minute  descriptions  of  exteriors.  He  seizes  on 
essentials;  he  etches,  he  does  not  paint.  He  writes  be- 
cause he  has  something  to  say;  and  he  wishes  to  be 
read  and  understood  by  those  who  care  more  for  the 
picture  than  for  the  frame.  The  whole  man  in  his  sim- 
plicity and  earnestness  appears  in  his  book.  But  we 
shall  let  him  speak  for  himself.  He  knows  better  how 
to  do  it  than  we. 

April  6,  1909.  M.  F. 


PART   I 
SUNRISE  AND   NOON 


CHAPTER  I 

EARLY     MEMORIES 

April  12,  18— . 

THERE  are  days  when  we  seem  to  be  born  anew  into 
the  pure  joy  of  living,  such  as  children  and  all  healthy 
young-  animals  feel.  The  stupidity  and  weariness  that 
had  benumbed  our  faculties  melt  away  like  morning 
mists,  and  the  sun  bursts  out  warm  and  brilliant.  Curi- 
osity and  interest  in  everything  revive.  Without  know- 
ing it,  we  go  about  with  a  smile  on  our  lips,  or  break 
into  singing.  Life  seems  once  more  to  need  no  par- 
ticular aim,  but  to  be  aim  and  joy  in  itself.  We  are 
glad  simply  to  be  alive. 

Here  I  am,  alive  to  the  finger-tips  on  such  a  day. 
I  shall  soon  be  forty;  and  I  feel  as  if  I  were  but 
twenty,  with  the  future  still  before  me,  big  with  hope 
and  promise. 

I  have  just  been  reading  Cellini's  autobiography  in 
that  familiar,  simple  old  Italian  whose  strength  and 
suppleness  no  translation  can  possibly  render.  What  a 
superb  mixture  it  is  of  arrogance  and  humility,  hard 
common  sense  and  the  wildest  superstition,  ribaldry  and 
poetry,  courage  and  cowardice,  coarseness  and  refine- 
ment, tenderness  and  brutality  (I  note  how  beautifully 
reverent  he  always  is  when  he  speaks  of  Michelangelo), 
crime  and  innocence — in  short,  the  whole  gamut  of 
human  strength  and  weakness  is  there,  illuminated  by 
great  genius. 

Is  it  immense  egotism  or  an  immense  generosity  that 
makes  a  man  capable  of  giving  himself  so  entirely  to 
posterity,  even  to  the  innermost  folds  of  his  heart?  I 
think  I  could  not  do  it,  were  I  to  suffer  a  thousand 
deaths  for  the  omission.  That  is  because  I  am  not 


4  THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

rich  enough.  I  should  shrink  into  a  corner,  ashamed 
of  my  rags  and  my  nakedness ;  yet  I,  too,  have  lived, 
thought,  felt  keenly,  suffered  much — and  isn't  that  the 
essence  of  literature?  What  is  wanting  to  the  writers 
of  to-day  is  that  they  have  not  known  real  difficulties, 
noble  sufferings.  Life  has  been  too  easy  for  them. 
They  can't  sit  on  stone  benches  any  more;  they  must 
have  cushions  under  them.  They  don't  know  the  mean- 
ing of  courage.  They  whine  when  they  cut  their  fin- 
gers. All  their  pains  are  colics — fits  of  indigestion; 
their  nausea  is  not  of  vice,  but  of  surfeiting.  If  they 
were  capable  of  believing  in  God,  they  would  ask  noth- 
ing of  him  but  an  exemption  from  the  evils  that  attend 
the  excessive  gratification  of  their  lusts.  The  soul !  the 
soul!  the  soul!  that  is  what  we  want  of  you;  not  your 
houses,  your  furniture,  your  decorations,  your  diseases, 
your  satieties.  What  have  you  done  to  deserve  to 
walk  upright  instead  of  going  on  all  fours?  Tell  us 
that! 

Cellini  opens  his  biography  by  saying  that  all  men, 
no  matter  their  condition,  if  they  have  done  anything 
worth  while,  ought  with  their  own  hand  to  write  a  de- 
scription of  their  life;  but  ought  not  to  commence 
doing  so  until  they  have  passed  the  age  of  forty. 

And  I?  Have  I  done  anything  worth  while,  lived 
to  any  purpose  whatever  these  forty  years?  To  the 
wounded,  solitude  and  silence!  But  the  wound  no 
longer  bleeds;  I  can  look  calmly  on  the  scar  which  I 
shall  carry  to  my  grave.  I  can  look  with  gratitude  on 
these  long  days  and  long  nights  in  the  heart  of  a  wood 
whose  silence  has  been  at  times  an  impassioned  elo- 
quence to  me.  A  great  sorrow  or  a  great  disillusion- 
ment sets  us  apart,  creates  a  solitude  about  us,  even 
in  the  market-place.  The  hum  of  voices  seems  to  come 
to  us  from  afar,  and  from  away  below  us.  It  is  as  if 
we  were  lifted  on  high,  where  the  only  real  life  there 
is,  is  concentrated  in  our  throbbing  veins  and  centered 
in  the  tumult  of  our  thoughts.  Fortunate  are  those 
who  have  not  been  numbed  and  chilled  in  this  soli- 
tude, but  can  find  articulate  speech  for  grief,  translat- 


EARLY   MEMORIES  5 

ing  it  into  music,  poetry,  or  the  vivifying  strength  of 
a  great  thought  or  noble  deed. 

Noble,  encouraging  lines  these  of  Goethe: 

"  Was  ich  irrte,  was  ich  strebte, 
Was  ich  litt  und  was  ich  lebte 
Sind    hier    Blumen   nur    im    Strauss; 
Und  das  Alter  wie  die  Jugend, 
Und  der  Fehler  wie  die  Tugend 
Nimmt  sich  gut  in  Liedern  aus." 

Ah,  if  I,  too,  could  gather  my  errors,  my  struggles, 
my  sufferings  into  such  a  Blumenstrauss,  what  would  I 
not  give?  There  are  times  when  I  have  suffered 
intensely  from  wanting  the  power  of  expression.  There 
is  a  poet  in  me  who  has  never  found  his  wings,  never 
possessed  the  magnificent  power  of  transforming  his 
griefs  into  song,  else  there  is  not  a  tear  I  have  shed 
but  should  glitter  in  verse,  not  a  sigh  I  have  breathed 
but  should  make  music  in  prose. 

Something  makes  me  feel  to-day  that  though  blasted 
at  top,  like  some  old  oak  of  the  forest,  the  roots  of 
me  live  yet,  and  could  send  their  sap  up  into  living 
branches  capable  of  bearing  fruit.  Who  knows?  Let 
me  look  myself  squarely  in  the  face  from  the  pages  of 
this  little  note-book;  let  me  recall  the  past  once  more, 
to  be  done  with  its  sorrow  forever;  or  rather,  to  be 
sure  that  I  have  digested  its  pain  into  the  red  blood 
of  courage  and  power. 

My  father,  George  Graham,  whose  name  and  whose 
physical  vigor  I  have  inherited,  was  the  head  gardener 
of  a  Scottish  nobleman  whose  estate  lay  among  the 
Braid  Hills  near  Edinburgh.  From  one  of  its  heights 
we  could  overlook  the  city;  and  with  a  slight  change 
of  names  I  might  sing  with  Walter  Scott: 

"  Blackford !    on    whose    uncultured    breast, 
Among  the  broom,  and  thorn,  and  whin, 
A  truant  boy,  I  sought  the  nest, 
Or  listed,  as  I  lay  at  rest, 


6  THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

While  rose,  on  breezes  thin, 
The  murmur  of  the  city  crowd, 
And,  from  his  steeple  jangling  loud, 
Saint   Giles's   mingling  din." 

How  I  love  her!  this  Auld  Reekie,  with  her  proud 
outlook  on  the  water,  her  old  castle  perched  on  a 
granite  cliff  and  seeming  to  grow  out  of  it  as  natu- 
rally as  some  stunted  pine  among  the  rocks ;  her  narrow 
crooked  streets  and  long  lines  of  gray  houses  pressed 
close  together;  her  monuments  and  old  palace,  eloquent 
of  the  life  of  the  past!  How  often  I  have  rambled 
about  her  streets  a  dreaming  boy,  fancying  myself  some 
knight  or  chevalier  ready  to  do  battle  for  my  country, 
or  to  die  for  the  cause  of  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots.  I 
remember  how  I  envied  the  young  Douglas  who  rowed 
her  across  Lochleven,  dropping  the  keys  of  the  castle 
into  the  lake; — and  would  have  eagerly  bartered  my 
life  and  lain  dust  and  ashes  in  his  place,  to  have  had 
his  privilege  to  look  at  her  beautiful  face. 

It  is  a  great  thing  for  an  imaginative  child  to  be 
born  in  a  town  with  memories  like  Edinburgh.  He 
feels  himself  as  it  were  legitimated — the  atmosphere  of 
poetry  nourishes  him;  and  his  poverty  sits  light  on  him, 
if  he  be  poor;  for  is  he  not  rich  in  historical  remi- 
niscences? 

The  house  in  which  my  father  lived  with  his  family 
was  a  very  pretty  little  lodge  at  the  entrance  of  the 
park,  in  the  midst  of  which  was  the  castle  of  his  master. 
I  still  remember  with  delight  the  picturesque  beauty  of 
this  house  made  of  rough,  brownish-gray  stone,  but  al- 
most entirely  concealed  by  vines  and  climbing  roses; 
and  the  odor  of  sweet  briar  or  of  the  honeysuckle  ex- 
haled at  night-fall  gives  me  even  now  a  singularly  deso- 
late feeling  of  homesickness  by  recalling  this  pretty 
nest  of  ours. 

My  father  was  a  man  of  very  unequal  humor,  other- 
wise a  really  superior  man,  loving  a  good  book  better 
than  the  idle  chatter  of  an  empty  head.  This  taste  un- 


EARLY   MEMORIES  7 

doubtedly  preserved  him  from  drink,  the  besetting 
weakness  of  many  men  of  his  station,  and  kept  him  at 
home.  There  were  days  when  he  was  altogether  charm- 
ing, showing  without  egotism  his  singular  good  sense, 
quick  wit,  and  sincere  cordiality.  Unfortunately,  these 
days  were  not  frequent;  there  were  many  more  of  them 
when  he  was  taciturn,  easily  fretted,  and  even  savagely 
morose.  We  children  had  a  habit  of  saying  to  mother 
when  we  had  not  yet  seen  him  in  the  morning,  and 
she  came  to  call  us,  or  help  one  of  us  dress,  "  Is  the 
sun  shining  ?  "  If  she  said,  "  Ah,  no,  my  children,  it 
is  very  cloudy  to-day  I"  we  kept  out  of  his  way  as 
much  as  possible,  talked  in  whispers,  and  played  no 
noisy  games  within  his  hearing. 

I  believe  that  my  mother,  who  was  patience  and  kind- 
ness itself,  was  not  very  happy  with  him.  She  was 
gentle  and  forgiving;  but  she  could  not  always  forget, 
on  the  days  of  his  kindness,  the  cruel  words  with  which 
he  had  hurt  her  in  ill  humor.  I  never  in  my  life  heard 
him  beg  her  pardon;  but  when  he  had  been  very  sar- 
castic, he  used  to  show  his  repentance  by  gathering  the 
choicest  flowers  and  laying  them  in  her  lap,  or  at  her 
plate;  or  he  would  bring  her  some  choice  fruit  and 
insist  upon  her  eating  it.  Sometimes,  though  very 
rarely,  he  would  stoop  and  kiss  her.  He  was  much 
taller  than  she,  with  strong  black  hair,  a  swarthy  skin, 
and  dark  eyes  that  glowed  like  live  coals  when  he  was 
angry.  She  was  blonde,  blue-eyed,  and  plump,  a  little 
below  the  medium  height,  naturally  the  sweetest  tem- 
pered, most  tranquil  of  women ;  but,  in  his  presence,  she 
always  seemed  anxious  and  nervous.  She  was  wholly 
uneducated,  so  far  as  books  are  concerned;  but  she 
supplied  this  lack  by  natural  shrewdness,  a  great  deal 
of  practical  ability,  so  that  her  very  fingers  seemed  to 
think,  and  a  simplicity  and  natural  grace  full  of  charm. 
She  would  have  answered  exactly  Moliere's  idea  of 
what  a  woman  should  be.  She  had  been  very  pretty 
as  a  girl.  I  have  a  small  colored  sketch  of  her  that 


8  THE  JOURNAL  OF  A  RECLUSE 

would  pass  for  a  copy  of  a  head  by  Greuze;  and  in 
growing  stouter  with  advancing  years,  if  she  lost  much 
of  that  early  infantile  freshness,  she  gained  by  a  sweet 
air  of  maternity  and  goodness  that  attracted  the  con- 
fidence and  affection  of  all  who  saw  her. 

She  was  the  mother  of  nine  children,  of  whom  I  was 
the  third  child  and  the  first  boy.  My  father  had  some 
theories  of  his  own  about  education,  which  he  deter- 
mined to  carry  out  with  his  children.  Undoubtedly,  he 
himself  had  often  been  tormented  by  tastes  and  ambi- 
tions out  of  harmony  with  his  station;  and  he  had 
resolved  that  none  of  his  children  should  suffer  in  a 
like  manner.  He  thought  the  great  majority  of  men 
incapable  of  self-government,  and  cited  the  horrors  of 
the  French  Revolution  to  prove  it.  He  had,  therefore, 
a  profound  distrust  of  all  theories  of  social  improve- 
ment, as  a  result  of  what  is  called  the  education  of 
the  masses,  because  he  thought  them  incapable  of  as- 
similating an  education.  Of  course,  he  could  not  help 
admitting  that  there  were  exceptional  cases  scattered 
among  them:  Burns  and  Ferguson  had  taught  him 
that;  but  such  men  in  receiving  the  gift  of  genius  had 
also  received  the  power  to  educate  themselves,  under 
any  circumstances ;  and  with  what  fire  he  quoted  Burns 
to  prove  it: 

"  What's  a*  your  jargon  o'  your  schools. 
Your  Latin  names  for  horns  an'  stools; 
If  honest  nature  made  you  fools, 
What  sairs  your  grammars? 
Ye'd  better  ta'en  up  spades  and  shools, 
Or   knappin-hammers. 

"  A  set  o'  dull,  conceited  hashes, 
Confuse  their  brains   in  college  classes! 
They  gang  in   stirks,   and  come  out  asses, 

Plain  truth  to  speak; 
An'  syne  they  think  to  climb  Parnassus 

By  dint  o'  Greek  1 


EARLY   MEMORIES  9 

"  Gie  me  a  spark  o'  nature's  fire. 
That's  a'  the  learning  I  desire; 
Then  though   I   drudge   thro'   dub   and   mire 

At  pleugh  or  cart, 
My  muse,  though  hamely  in  attire, 
May  touch  the  heart." 

He  was  a  Tory  by  conviction,  and  not  by  inherited 
opinions;  and  so  far  above  feeling  class  envy  that  he 
used  to  declare  that  no  greater  misfortune  could  over- 
take the  human  race  than  their  arrival  at  a  stage  of  per- 
fect natural  equality;  and  that  all  social  and  individual 
progress,  all  charm  in  the  variety  of  human  types  and 
conditions  of  life,  all  the  higher  feelings  of  sympathy, 
reverence,  affection,  depend  on  this  very  inequality 
which  exists  among  men.  "  Who  will  build  your  houses, 
dig  your  sewers,  pave  your  streets,  till  your  fields,  on 
the  day  when  you  are  all  artists  and  poets  ?  "  he  would 
say ;  and  again,  "  It  is  a  great  misfortune  for  a  man 
never  to  have  known  a  superior.  I  would  rather  look 
up  than  stoop  continually.  I  would  rather  admire  than 
despise."  In  which  views,  I  think  he  was  altogether 
right. 

As  for  his  children,  he  wished  to  give  them  the 
strength  of  body  and  mind  that  comes  from  perfect 
physical  health,  and  the  freedom  and  independence  that 
come  from  the  privation  of  all  luxuries.  "  Cleanliness," 
he  used  to  say,  "is  the  luxury  of  the  poor.  I  want 
no  one  to  outstrip  you  in  that." 

Our  food,  therefore,  was  always  abundant  enough 
and  varied  enough,  within  the  necessary  limits;  but  it 
was  always  very  simple;  however,  as  we  brought  a 
healthy  appetite  to  it,  we  ate  it  with  a  relish  that  few 
children  at  present  know  anything  about.  We  had 
meat  twice  a  week,  good  creamy  milk  for  our  por- 
ridge, and  a  wholesome  rye  bread  which  my  mother 
made  to  perfection.  We  had  a  few  chickens  and  they 


io         THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

furnished  us  with  eggs,  and  a  little  garden  which  sup- 
plied us  with  the  ordinary  vegetables.  But  we  had 
neither  candy,  chewing-gum,  cakes,  nor  imported  fruits, 
and  I  was  ten  years  old  before  I  had  ever  tasted  any- 
thing but  home-made  sweets.  At  New  Year's  and 
Christmas,  mother  made  us  a  big  pan  of  taffy,  which, 
carefully  hoarded,  sometimes  lasted  three  weeks.  But, 
taffy  at  any  other  time  would  have  seemed  to  us  all 
only  one  of  the  sublime  impossibilities  of  fairy-tales. 
Neither  did  we  ever  own  such  a  thing  as  an  artificial 
toy.  My  sisters'  dolls  were  ingeniously  fashioned  out 
of  a  bit  of  wood  which  my  father  whittled  into  the 
rude  semblance  of  a  doll,  burning  eyes,  nose,  and 
mouth  into  the  face  with  a  red-hot  poker.  A  long 
straight  stick  was  my  hobby-horse,  and  I  pranced  about, 
astride  it,  rearing,  kicking,  running,  jumping  with  it, 
and  getting  a  hundred  times  more  exercise,  and  more 
varied  at  that,  than  if  it  had  been  the  finest  of  painted 
rocking-horses.  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  the  exer- 
cise of  the  imagination  in  a  child's  play  gives  a  keener 
zest  to  it  when  he  is  left  in  this  way  to  find  his  own 
playthings  and  invent  his  own  games.  Left  to  our- 
selves we  were  never  at  a  loss  for  amusement ;  a  pretty 
pebble  in  the  pathway,  an  early  flower,  a  brightly  col- 
ored leaf,  a  curved  bit  of  bark  to  sail  on  a  stream, 
made  us  rich  for  hours.  My  oldest  sister,  four  years 
my  senior,  was  the  leader  and  promoter  of  most  of  our 
games;  her  quick  fancy  invested  every  thing  about  her 
with  life;  and  she  had  a  really  wonderful  way  of 
making  us  share  her  imaginative  gift.  There  were  cer- 
tain trees  in  the  park  we  used  to  visit  gravely;  talk 
with  them,  and  converse  about  them,  as  if  they  were 
human  beings.  She  invented  names  for  them,  enter- 
tained us  with  their  extraordinary  adventures;  and  we 
were  sad  for  a  week  when  the  lightning  struck  one  of 


EARLY   MEMORIES  11 

them,  shivering  its  top.  We  spoke  of  it  as  a  death  in 
the  family.  Poor  girl!  with  all  that  surplus  sense  of 
life  to  enrich  her  own  personality,  she  was  not  destined 
to  be  happy.  She  married  at  twenty,  against  my  father's 
will,  a  young  artist  who  was  fascinated  by  her  beauty. 
She  had  inherited  her  mother's  fair  skin  and  yellow 
hair,  and  the  dark,  luminous  eyes  of  her  father.  She 
had  one  child,  a  daughter;  was  never  strong  after- 
wards, and  her  husband  grew  indifferent  to  her.  There 
may  have  been  faults  on  her  side;  she  was  quick-tem- 
pered, imaginative,  morbidly  sensitive,  and  capable  of 
suffering  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  cause,  which 
would  make  her  difficult  to  live  with  intimately.  Al- 
though her  education,  in  accordance  with  my  father's 
ideas,  had  been  wholly  domestic,  like  that  of  the  rest 
of  my  sisters,  in  learning  to  read  she  had  received 
the  key  to  a  wider  culture;  and  her  language,  in  its 
simplicity  and  correctness,  would  not  have  put  her  to 
shame  in  any  station. 

Just  as  my  sisters  were  destined  to  be  good  house- 
wives, my  brothers  and  I  were  all  to  be  brought  up  to 
some  useful  trade.  It  never  entered  my  father's  head 
to  make  a  scholar  of  one  of  us — we  might  follow  any- 
thing that  nature  inclined  us  to;  but  we  were  to  live 
by  our  hands,  not  by  our  wits;  and  we  were  to  be 
subjected  from  infancy  to  a  hardening  process  that 
was  intended  to  make  us  full  of  courage,  self-reliant, 
and  resourceful.  We  were  put  to  bed  in  the  dark;  we 
slept  in  a  room  without  fire;  we  bathed  in  cold  water; 
and  as  we  had  never  known  anything  else,  we  no  more 
dreamed  of  asking  for  indulgence  in  these  directions 
than  of  asking  for  the  moon  to  play  with.  But  we 
none  of  us  escaped  some  particular  discipline  that  burned 
itself  painfully  into  the  memory.  For  my  own  part, 
I  still  remember,  with  something  like  self-pity,  a  very 


12          THE  JOURNAL   OF  A  RECLUSE 

cruel  ordeal  that  fell  to  my  lot.  It  happened  when  I 
was  a  mere  baby,  hardly  four  years  old.  It  was  a 
beautiful  day  in  early  summer.  My  father  wanted  my 
mother  to  help  him  with  some  work  in  the  meadows  at 
some  distance  from  the  house;  a  work  in  which  the 
two  older  children  could  also  assist,  and  they  were  to 
be  taken  along.  I  had  fallen  asleep,  and  though  my 
mother  wished  to  awaken  me,  to  take  me  with  her, 
my  father  would  not  consent  to  it,  saying  that  I  would 
only  be  in  the  way  and  that  I  was  quite  old  enough 
now  to  be  left  alone;  besides,  I  was  really  more  of  a 
girl  about  tagging  after  my  mother's  heels  than  either 
of  my  two  sisters,  and  it  was  high  time  that  I  was 
weaned.  Nothing  more  was  necessary  than  to  lock 
the  doors  and  windows,  so  that  if  I  awoke,  I  shouldn't 
be  able  to  get  out  and  wander  away;  and  that  if  I 
cried,  it  would  be  good  for  my  lungs.  It  was,  prob- 
ably, one  of  my  father's  cloudy  days;  and  my  mother 
knew  him  too  well  to  try  to  persuade  him  to  the  con- 
trary; so  taking  her  baby  in  her  arms  she  left  me  with 
a  heavy  heart  and  full  of  fears.  Her  anxiety  wasn't 
groundless.  I  had  fallen  asleep  on  the  floor,  and  woke 
duly,  looking  tranquilly  about  me,  probably  expecting 
soon  to  see  my  mother's  sweet,  kind  face  bend  over  me 
with  a  smile.  All  at  once,  I  heard  a  strange  buzzing 
sound,  that  quickened  the  beating  of  my  heart  and 
filled  me  with  fear.  I  uttered  a  slight  cry,  expecting 
to  see  some  one  appear  at  once;  but  nothing  broke  the 
dead  silence  but  the  monotonous  ticking  of  the  clock, 
and  this  strange  buzzing  sound  that  grew  louder  and 
louder.  Then  I  saw  a  large,  hideous  insect  circling  above 
my  head,  and  my  alarm  changed  to  the  most  cruel  ter- 
ror. I  rose  with  a  loud  scream  and  rushed  into  the  kitchen 
to  seek  refuge  in  my  mother's  arms.  The  room  was 
I  empty.  I  called  aloud  "  Mother !  Mother !  "  I  ran 


EARLY   MEMORIES  13 

from  room  to  room,  the  insect  pursuing  me.  The  un- 
wonted solitude  of  the  house,  this  frightful  insect,  the 
immense  terror  that  overwhelmed  me,  threw  me  into 
convulsions.  The  minutes  grew  hours.  How  long  this 
lasted,  I  cannot  tell ;  but  when  at  last  the  family  came 
back  at  noon,  I  was  almost  demented.  My  mother  cried 
and  folded  me  in  her  arms;  my  father  took  me  from 
her,  and  bathing  my  face  in  cold  water,  at  last  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  from  me  an  explanation  of  the  cause 
of  my  terror.  No  sooner  did  he  understand,  than  set- 
ting me  on  the  floor,  he  burst  into  a  loud  la,ugh. 
Chasing  the  insect  towards  the  window-pane,  he  told 
me  that  it  was  a  wasp,  and  putting  a  towel  into  my 
hand,  bade  me  try  to  kill  it.  Exhausted  by  terror, 
trembling  like  a  leaf,  conscious  that  I  could  not  do  it, 
I  burst  into  tears  and  refused  to  try.  Disobedience  was 
not  a  fault  in  my  father's  eyes,  it  was  a  crime.  He 
whipped  me  soundly,  and  wrapping  the  towel  about 
my  baby  hand,  seized  my  arm  and  dashed  it  against 
the  wasp  on  the  window-pane  with  such  violence  that 
he  broke  the  glass.  Whether  he  killed  the  wasp  or 
not,  I  never  knew.  My  mother,  white  as  a  sheet, 
rushed  forward,  and  picking  me  up  in  her  arms,  uttered 
the  only  reproach  to  him  I  ever  heard  pass  her  lips; 
but  it  was  a  furious  one.  "  You  brute !  "  she  cried, 
"  you  do  not  deserve  to  have  a  child ! " 

He  did  not  answer,  but  white  as  herself,  passed  out 
of  the  room. 

When  he  came  back  at  night  he  was  entirely  himself 
again,  for  there  was  always  something  generous  in  his 
anger;  it  spent  itself  all  at  once — there  was  nothing 
slow  or  sullen  in  his  nature,  he  couldn't  sulk — the  sky 
cleared  at  once,  as  soon  as  the  storm  was  over.  He 
talked  cheerfully  to  us  all,  never  made  the  slightest 
allusion  to  what  had  happened,  but  just  before  it  was 


14          THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

time  for  us  children  to  go  to  bed,  he  took  me  on  his 
lap,  and  drawing  from  his  pocket  a  small  book,  he 
began  to  show  me  the  pictures  in  it,  telling  me  that  he 
had  bought  it  for  me,  and  that  I  must  learn  my  letters, 
so  that  I  could  read  it  some  day.  It  was  a  child's  book 
about  animals,  profusely  illustrated,  and  simply  written. 
I  was  too  much  of  a  child,  too  healthy  to  feel  resent- 
ment, and  family  affections  are  very  strong  in  simple 
and  uncorrupted  natures.  I  did  not  love  my  father 
the  less  for  his  austerities,  perhaps  I  loved  him  the 
more  for  them,  not  being  able  to  imagine  that  a  father 
could  act  otherwise.  I  have  spoken  of  my  mother's 
sharp  reproof  drawn  from  her  in  a  moment  of  maternal 
agony,  but  that  was  quite  exceptional.  In  caressing 
her  children  after  some  mistaken  harshness  on  his 
part,  she  took  great  pains  to  efface  that  view  of  it,  and 
never  criticized  him,  or  allowed  us  to  complain.  She 
was  his  interpreter  to  us,  explaining  that  he  hated 
cowardice,  lying,  shirking,  and  neglect  of  duty  as  he 
ought  to  hate  them,  and  as  he  meant  that  we  should 
hate  them  too.  That  he  was  quite  successful  at  least 
in  making  us  hate  and  fear  the  consequences  of  weak- 
ness, I  can  attest  by  another  experience  which  occurred 
about  a  year  and  a  half  later. 

My  father  was  a  great  smoker,  and  had  the  bad  habit 
of  smoking,  at  times,  in  bed.  I  think  he  would  have 
quite  frankly  admitted  that  it  was  a  very  bad  habit  and 
a  very  selfish  one,  and  then  would  have  justified  it  on 
the  score  that  perfection  is  no  part  of  man's  inheri- 
tance or  possible  acquisition  on  earth;  and  that  if  he 
didn't  smoke  in  bed  sometimes,  he  would  probably  do 
worse. 

One  night,  when  for  some  reason  or  other  my  spell- 
ing lesson  had  been  neglected  during  the  day,  he  called 
me  to  him  in  bed,  and  I  lay  on  his  arm  spelling  for 
him,  while  he  smoked.  It  was  a  warm  night,  and  my 
gown  was  unbuttoned  at  the  neck,  exposing  my  shoul- 
ders and  chest.  Finding  that  his  pipe  interfered  with 


EARLY   MEMORIES  15 

the  lesson,  he  took  it  from  his  mouth  to  put  it  on  the 
wash  stand,  near  the  head  of  the  bed.  In  doing  so,  it 
turned  in  his  hand,  so  that  the  burning  ashes  fell  on 
my  bare  shoulder.  He  did  not  notice  the  mishap,  and 
though  I  winced  involuntarily  at  the  first  touch,  I 
lay  perfectly  still  afterwards,  not  daring  even  to  brush 
the  ashes  from  my  smarting  skin,  but  heroically  spelled 
away  till,  yawning,  he  declared  himself  satisfied  and 
bade  me  run  off  to  bed.  I  never  told  anyone  how  badly 
I  had  been  burnt,  but  there  is  a  dotted  white  scar  on  my 
shoulder  that  will  tell  the  story  till  I,  too,  am  dust  and 
ashes. 

So  much  for  our  moral  discipline,  consisting  not  so 
much  of  precept  as  of  example ;  for  though  my  father 
diligently  read  his  Bible,  and  rarely  discussed  its  teach- 
ings, he  left  to  my  mother  the  care  of  instilling  what 
is  commonly  known  as  religious  principles  into  us. 
Like  a  man  who  had  thought  out  the  subject  for  him- 
self, he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  as  the  ordi- 
nary man  dislikes  nothing  so  much  as  uncertainty,  and, 
like  a  child,  is  satisfied  with  any  reply  to  his  questions, 
so  long  as  it  dogmatically  affirms  that  it  is  a  reply, 
the  name  of  religion  covers  a  multitude  of  guesses  and 
reveries.  He  himself  was  satisfied  with  saying,  "  I  do 
not  know  " — and  to  those  who  feel  it  necessary  to  say 
"  I  do  know,"  he  would  have  recommended  any  form 
of  Protestantism  as  the  most  suitable  guide  to  moral 
living.  But  he  had  a  supreme  contempt  for  the  man- 
ner in  which  the  majority  of  believers  interpret  and 
follow  their  guide;  and  I  once  heard  him  define  a 
Christian  as  a  man  who  pretended  to  believe  in  Christ, 
but  refused  to  imitate  him;  and  a  skeptic,  as  a  man 
who  doubted  Christ's  divine  origin,  but  believed  in  his 
teachings  with  regard  to  the  relation  of  man  to  man, 
and  tried  to  follow  them. 

He  gave,  therefore,  a  tacit  recognition  to  the  rules 
of  Christianity,  and  I  was  a  grown  young  man  before 
I  positively  knew  his  convictions.  I  am  the  only  one 


16          THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

of  his  [children  who  ever  suspected  them.  I  think  my 
mother  knew  that  he  was  not  orthodox,  but  she  never 
said  anything  about  it.  As  for  herself,  she  had  the 
simplicity  of  faith  of  a  little  child.  Never  the  shadow 
of  a  doubt  darkened  her  sweet,  gentle  spirit.  She  was 
of  those  born  to  conviction.  Her  loving  and  faithful 
heart  needed  an  infinite  and  permanent  love  in  which 
to  find  the  rest  denied  it  here;  in  which  characteristic 
she  was  wholly  woman. 

I  was  a  grown  young  man  before  my  father  spoke 
frankly  to  me  about  his  opinions,  and  I  was  the  only 
one  of  his  children  to  whom  he  did  so  speak.  I  was 
also  the  only  one  of  them  who  received  a  liberal  educa- 
tion, and  that  happened  quite  contrary  to  his  will.  He 
wished  to  teach  us  how  to  read  and  write  and  calcu- 
late so  far  as  the  needs  of  practical  life  require  knowl- 
edge. He  taught  us  the  names  of  trees  and  plants, 
and  their  virtues;  the  common  minerals,  and  a  prac- 
tical sort  of  elementary  chemistry,  sufficient  to  allow 
us  to  draw  all  the  possible  advantages  from  the  soil. 
If  curiosity  or  a  desire  to  know  more,  impelled  us,  well 
and  good — we  were  properly  started;  we  might  go  on 
as  fast  or  as  slowly  as  we  pleased.  If  not,  we  were 
amply  equipped  with  a  skilled  trade  at  our  fingers' 
ends  to  make  our  way  respectably  through  life, 
without  being  troubled  by  visions  and  setting  up  for 
reformers.  My  brothers  have  proved  the  wisdom  of 
his  ideas  by  becoming  respectable  and  independent  ar- 
tisans; and  I,  who  received  the  best  education  attain- 
able in  my  youth,  have  found,  if  not  the  happiest,  at 
least  the  most  useful  and  most  tranquil  days  of  my 
life  in  following  my  father's  pursuits.  How  my  edu- 
cation happened  to  take  another  bent  was  owing  to  a 
singular  circumstance. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  HAPPY  ACCIDENT 

THE  nobleman  in  whose  service  my  father  passed 
his  life,  had  an  only  son  who  was  about  two  months 
my  senior.  Unfortunately,  he  was  born  with  a  spinal 
malady  which  threatened  to  deform  him,  and  made 
him  suffer  cruelly  at  times.  All  that  medical  and  sur- 
gical skill  could  do  to  relieve  his  sufferings  had  been 
done ;  but  he  was  unable  to  walk,  and  had  to  be  wheeled 
about  in  an  invalid's  chair.  But,  as  if  nature  had 
wished  to  recompense  him  for  her  injuries,  he  was  gifted 
with  a  mind  marvelously  quick  in  receiving  impressions, 
and  tenacious  in  holding  them;  and,  though  his  poor 
little  body  was  twisted,  his  face  was  one  of  remarkable 
beauty,  with  its  large,  dark  eyes,  broad,  full  forehead, 
and  sensitive  mouth.  I  shall  never  forget  the  first 
time  that  I  saw  this  beautiful  head  quite  near  me.  It 
was  a  fine  afternoon  in  May.  I  have  shared  with  my 
older  sister  a  certain  vivacity  of  imagination  more  easily 
exercised  in  solitude  than  in  company,  to  which  I  prob- 
ably owe  a  strong  inclination  for  rambling  about  in 
woods  and  solitary  places.  I  had  been  sauntering  this 
day  along  the  edge  of  a  stream  which  had  cut  its  way 
at  the  foot  of  a  steep,  wooded  hill.  Having  followed 
its  course  some  distance,  I  climbed  the  hill  at  its  steepest 
point,  where  the  wood  was  thickest.  There,  in  a  small, 
open  space,  looking  down  on  the  ravine,  I  threw  myself 
on  my  back  among  the  grass  and  wild  flowers,  with 
my  hands  interlaced  beneath  my  head,  and  my  eyes 
fixed  on  the  bit  of  blue  sky  above  me.  I  was  in  the 
midst  of  one  of  those  delightful  reveries  which  only 
lovers  and  fanciful  children  know,  when  I  suddenly 

17 


i8         THE  JOURNAL   OF  A  RECLUSE 

heard  the  murmur  of  voices  and  the  sound  of  ap- 
proaching steps.  I  rose  with  a  bound,  and  ran  to  hide 
myself  in  a  thick  clump  of  bushes  near  by,  in  order 
to  wait  the  departure  of  my  unwelcome  intruders.  From 
my  place  of  concealment,  I  could  see  very  well  without 
being  seen.  To  my  great  surprise,  the  intruders  were 
a  young  woman  in  the  dress  of  an  attendant  nurse, 
or  governess,  and  two  children;  one,  a  girl  of  eleven 
or  twelve;  the  other,  a  boy  of  my  own  age,  that  is  to 
say,  nine,  seated  in  a  wheeled  chair. 

"  Oh,"  cried  the  girl,  jumping  up  and  down  and  clap- 
ping her  hands  with  pleasure,  "  this  is  the  very  place 
we  were  looking  for,  isn't  it?  Let's  set  down  here  on 
the  grass,  and  you  can  finish  the  story.  Don't  you  like 
it,  Eliot  ?  "  She  ran  to  the  chair,  leaning  over  it  affec- 
tionately; and  the  boy  smiling  up  at  her,  answered  that 
he  liked  it,  too. 

"  Very  well,"  answered  the  nurse,  ceasing  to  wheel 
the  chair.  "  It  is  very  pretty  here,  and  cool,  too.  What 
did  you  do  with  the  book,  Lady  Margaret?" 

"  I  put  it  into  the.  chair." 

The  nurse  began  searching  for  the  book,  but  could 
not  find  it. 

"  No,  it  isn't  here.  Are  you  very  sure  that  you  put 
it  into  the  chair?" 

"  Yes.  I  slipped  it  in  at  the  side,  when  we  stopped 
to  pick  the  hare-bells." 

"Then  it  must  have  fallen  out.  I'll  go  back  and  see 
if  I  can  find  it.  Do  you  think  you  can  amuse  your- 
selves here  a  little  while,  till  I  come  back?  I  won't 
be  long." 

With  that,  she  hastened  away.  I  lay  perfectly  motion- 
less, almost  afraid  to  breathe,  lest  I  should  betray  my 
presence,  but  fascinated  by  the  extreme  beauty  of  the 
children  and  the  natural  grace  of  the  young  girl.  She 
was  dressed  in  white  with  a  sash  of  blue  ribbon;  and 
shoulder  knots  of  the  same  color  looped  up  her  short 
sleeves. 


A   HAPPY  ACCIDENT  19 

Of  course,  I  knew  at  once  that  they  were  the  chil- 
dren of  Lord  L ~,  as  I  had  seen  them  at  times  at 

chapel  service  and  riding  out  at  the  gate  of  the  lodge; 
but  the  cleft  that  social  distinctions  had  created  be- 
tween us  was  so  great  that  it  had  removed  them  in  my 
fancy  so  far  above  me  that  I  never  thought  of  them 
as  children,  with  the  natural  weaknesses  and  desires 
of  children,  but  as  some  sort  of  superior  creatures  to 
whom  I  should  look  up  with  reverence,  but  never  pre- 
sume to  think  of  as  associates.  My  father  had  taken 
great  pains  to  instil  this  reverence  into  his  children. 
He,  himself,  was  fully  persuaded  that  however  much 
the  nobility  had  degenerated,  in  individual  cases  through 
shameful  misalliances,  it  had  its  foundation  originally 
in  a  natural  superiority  of  mental  and  physical  force 
— qualities  that  imply  leadership,  and  ought  to  imply 
the  willing  obedience  of  inferior  classes. 

In  the  presence  of  this  beauty  and  joyous  grace,  it 
was  not  difficult  for  me,  a  shy,  awkward,  imaginative 
boy,  to  feel  the  difference  between  these  children  and 
myself;  and  to  my  fascinated  eyes,  the  little  girl  re- 
called the  image  of  the  angels  of  whom  my  mother  de- 
lighted to  speak  in  recounting  the  joys  of  paradise. 

Apparently,  the  governess  could  not  readily  find  the 
book  which  she  had  gone  in  search  of,  and  the  children 
began  to  tire  of  doing  nothing.  The  young  girl  began 
to  pick  up  pebbles  from  the  bare  stony  incline  of  the 
hill-side,  and  returning  to  the  summit,  amused  herself 
with  trying  to  throw  them  into  the  stream — she  wasn't 
often  successful;  but  when  the  stone  fell  into  the 
stream  with  a  splash,  she  laughed  and  shouted  with 
glee.  The  boy  wished  to  share  in  the  sport,  and  begged 
her  to  wheel  his  chair  nearer  the  edge,  and  to  give 
him  some  stones,  also.  She  gathered  up  a  handful  of 
pebbles,  and  rolled  his  chair  dangerously  near  the  in- 
cline. He  found  the  game  amusing,  and  showed  a 
natural  dexterity  in  hitting  certain  trees  at  which  he 
aimed;  for  when  he  found  that  he  had  not  sufficient 


20         THE   JOURNAL   OF  A  RECLUSE 

strength  to  hurl  the  stone  into  the  stream,  or,  perhaps, 
lacked  a  sufficiently  good  position  from  which  to  hurl 
it,  he  desisted  from  the  attempt,  and  declared  it  was 
more  fun  to  play  that  he  was  shooting  game;  and  he 
selected  certain  trees  that  he  called  deer,  at  which  he 
aimed.  Soon  he  had  thrown  all  the  stones  which  she 
had  gathered,  and  begged  her  to  go  farther  down  the 
hill  and  bring  him  up  a  quantity  of  larger  ones.  She 
started  off  at  once,  but  seing  some  beautiful  flowers 
growing  along  the  edge  of  the  stream,  she  went  far- 
ther than  she  had  intended  at  first.  The  boy  grew 
impatient  at  her  delay.  Leaning  far  forward  in  a  sudden 
effort  to  look  down  into  the  ravine,  he  set  the  chair 
in  motion.  I  saw  the  peril  in  a  moment,  and,  quick 
as  a  flash,  I  darted  from  the  bush  and  threw  myself 
headlong  before  the  chair,  stopping  its  course  with  my 
body  just  as  it  was  about  to  make  a  rapid  and  danger- 
ous descent  into  the  stream,  which  at  that  point  was 
deep  enough  to  drown  him. 

He  hadn't  uttered  a  cry,  although  he  must  have 
seen  his  danger;  but,  in  falling,  I  had  pierced  the 
fleshy  part  of  my  hand  with  a  long  thorn,  and  the 
blood  that  ran  from  the  wound  caught  his  eye.  Then 
he  commenced  to  call  for  help  with  all  his  might.  His 
sister,  dropping  her  flowers,  began  to  run,  crying,  to- 
wards us,  slipping  and  falling  on  the  way;  but  before 
she  could  reach  us  the  governess  appeared,  and  rescued 
us  without  more  ado.  She  was  pale  with  terror,  blamed 
herself  for  having  left  them,  overwhelmed  me  with  ex- 
pressions of  gratitude,  asked  my  name,  and  called  me 
a  little  hero.  Seeing  my  wounded  hand,  she  closed  her 
eyes  a  moment,  then  opening  them,  resolutely  drew  the 
thorn  from  my  hand,  and  bound  her  handkerchief  about 
the  wound. 

The  young  girl  turned  towards  me  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  saying  simply :  "  How  good  and  brave  you  are." 
The  boy  alone  said  nothing;  but  he  put  out  his  hand, 
and  catching  hold  of  mine,  pressed  it  firmly.  All  three 


A   HAPPY  ACCIDENT.  21 

wished  to  go  with  me  to  the  lodge  to  see  my  hand 
properly  dressed,  but  confused,  trembling  like  an  aspen, 
I  begged  to  be  allowed  to  go  alone,  and  darted  away 
through  the  woods  like  some  wild  thing,  and  was  soon 
out  of  their  sight  or  hearing.  But  I  was  in  no  hurry 
to  get  home.  Intimate  joys  like  intimate  griefs  refuse 
companionship,  and  I  was  inexpressibly  happy.  I  had 
saved  a  human  life,  and  was  born  anew  into  my  first 
complete  consciousness  of  individuality.  Up  to  this 
time  I  had  existed  as  a  chaos  of  romantic  fancies,  never 
once  accepting  myself  for  what  I  really  was — the  eldest 
son  of  a  poor  peasant,  destined  to  follow  his  footsteps 
and  till  the  soil  in  my  turn.  Sometimes,  as  I  have  al- 
ready said,  I  was  a  knight-errant,  wandering  from  coun- 
try to  country,  a  miniature  Don  Quixote,  righting 
wrongs  and  covering  myself  with  glory.  Sometimes,  I 
was  only  a  humble  missionary,  'carrying  light  into  dark- 
est Africa,  preaching  to  black  cannibals  a  religion  of 
love.  But  to-day,  I  was  just  myself — a  little  boy  nine 
years  old,  who  had  rendered  a  great  service  to  his 
master,  and  felt  that  there  was  nothing  sweeter  in  life 
than  just  to  serve. 

My  exaltation  prevented  me  from  feeling  the  slight- 
est pain  in  my  hand;  but  it  did  not  prevent  a  sub-con- 
sciousness of  my  surroundings  which  stamped  them 
so  vividly  on  my  memory  that  I  seem  to-day  to  feel 
the  hallowed  hush  of  that  beautiful  May  day  in  the 
woods;  to  see  the  irregular  wavering  patches  of  sun- 
light, filtered  through  the  tree-tops,  lighting  up  the 
moss  on  their  trunks ;  to  hear  the  dry  dead  twigs  crackle 
under  my  feet,  the  whirr  of  a  bird's  wing  darting  across 
my  path;  and  to  smell  the  earthy  odor  of  the  damp 
woods  and  moldering  leaves. 

Up  to  this  time  my  affections,  solid  and  tranquil, 
had  been  limited  entirely  to  my  family,  and  were  rather 
of  the  nature  of  habits  than  passions;  but  to-day,  my 
childish  heart  swelled  with  passionate  delight  in  an- 
other, in  this  young  master  whose  dark  eyes  had  looked 


22          THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

gratefully  into  mine,  whose  small  fingers  had  clasped 
my  hand  so  fervently.  I  envied  the  woman  who  wheeled 
his  chair,  the  sister  whose  privilege  it  was  to  amuse 
him;  I  regretted  that  I  had  not  hurt  myself  more  seri- 
ously in  his  service.  I  longed  to  make  myself  worthy 
of  his  regard. 

As  for  his  sister,  although  I  had  remarked  her 
beauty,  I  was  as  much  troubled  as  charmed  by  it;  I 
felt  myself  so  much  beneath  her,  that  it  seemed  an 
audacity  to  wish  to  see  her  again.  How  coarse  and 
common  I  must  seem  to  her! — but  he,  he  was  a  boy; 
he  would  understand  me,  he  might  even  learn  to  like 
to  have  me  about  him! 

When  I  reached  home,  I  was  so  full  of  my  new 
happiness  and  at  the  same  time  rendered  so  timid  by 
the  excess  of  my  emotions,  that  I  dared  not  speak  of 
my  adventure;  but  to  my  mother's  enquiries  about  my 
sore  hand  I  replied  that  I  had  fallen  on  the  hill  and 
hurt  it  with  a  thorn.  I  had  taken  care  to  remove  the 
handkerchief  and  hide  it  in  my  pocket  to  avoid  having 
to  give  an  account  of  it. 

She  washed  the  wound  and  sucked  it,  fearing  poison ; 
then  carefully  bound  it  up,  telling  me  I  was  a  good  boy 
not  to  cry  and  make  a  great  fuss  about  it. 

But  my  secret,  my  beautiful  secret,  was  not  destined 
to  remain  unknown.  We  were  all  at  supper  on  the 

evening  of  the  same  day,  when  a  servant  of  Lord  L 

announced  his  master's  arrival  at  the  Lodge. 

Lord  L was  a  tall,  square-shouldered,  handsome 

man,  with  a  leonine  head  and  a  haughty  expression 
that  inspired  respect  and  fear.  Seeing  him  enter  the 
room,  I  felt  myself  turn  scarlet,  and  my  heart  beat 
so  violently  that  it  seemed  to  me  it  must  force  its  way 
through  my  chest. 

"  Good-evening,  Graham,"  he  said  to  my  father,  who 
rose  instantly  from  his  chair,  as  did  the  rest  of  us. 
"  I  have  come  to  see  one  of  your  boys ;  the  one  who 
showed  to-day  that  he  can  think  and  act  at  the  right 


A   HAPPY  ACCIDENT  23 

time,  and  hasn't  a  cowardly  drop  of  blood  in  his  veins. 
Ah,  there  he  is ! "  he  continued,  catching  sight  of  my 
blushing  face  and  hanging  head.  "  See,  he  has  his  hand 
bound  up.  Come  here,  my  boy.  He  told  you  what  he 
did,  didn't  he?" 

My  father  looked  from  his  master  to  me  with  great 
surprise,  and  answered: 

"  Not  a  word,  my  lord ! " 

"  And  you,  Madame  ?  "  he  said,  turning  to  my  mother. 

Troubled  and  trembling  almost  as  much  as  I,  she 
replied : 

"  My  lord,  he  told  me  that  he  had  fallen  and  hurt 
his  hand  with  a  thorn,  that  is  all." 

His  lordship  put  his  hand  on  my  head,  and  a  smile 
lighted  his  face,  lending  to  it  an  expression  of  rare 
sweetness. 

"  Then  it  is  my  great  pleasure  to  tell  you  that  he 
saved  the  life  of  my  son  to-day;  if  not  at  the  risk  of 
his  own,  at  any  rate  at  the  risk  of  seriously  injuring 
himself.  I  am  very  glad  that  he  escaped  with  a  slight 
wound  and  a  few  bruises." 

"  My  lord,  he  did  nothing  but  his  duty  and  obeyed 
a  natural  instinct,"  said  my  father. 

"  A  boy  who  has  such  instincts  and  can  obey  them 
so  effectively  can  make  a  man  worth  the  name." 

"  Thank  you,  my  lord,  I  hope  so,"  answered  my 
father  with  a  respectful  courtesy. 

"  But  we  must  help  a  little  at  that.  I  know  your 
ideas  about  education,  Graham,  and  I  approve  of  them. 
We  plow  the  ground  when  we  know  that  it  is  fertile 
enough  to  repay  us  for  our  labor;  but  if  we  should 
discover  a  gold  mine  in  the  same  piece  of  ground,  we 
should  stop  making  a  wheat-field  of  it.  We  should  sink 
shafts,  bring  machines,  and  prepare  for  getting  out  the 
ore.  I  want  to  see  what  I  can  get  out  of  this  boy  of 
yours,  by  giving  him  the  same  educational  advantages 
that  my  son  will  receive.  You  will  consent  to  that, 
I  feel  sure." 


24         THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

"  My  lord,"  stammered  my  father,  reddening  to  the 
roots  of  his  hair,  "  he  is  yours  to  do  what  you  will  with 
him;  but  I  fear  you  do  us  too  much  honor,  and  if  you 
should  be  mistaken, — if  there  should  be  no  gold  in 
him " 

"  Then  we'll  stop  mining,"  interrupted  his  lordship 
with  a  smile,  "  go  back  to  plowing,  and  we  shall  have 
some  wheat.  May  I  speak  to  you  alone,  concerning 
my  plans?" 

He  turned  towards  the  door  and  my  father  followed 
him  into  the  yard. 

My  mother  said  nothing;  but,  folding  her  arms  about 
me,  kissed  me  passionately  and  burst  into  tears.  Whether 
they  were  tears  of  joy  and  pride,  or  whether  they 
marked  a  sudden  presentiment  of  misfortune  in  this 
new  destiny  that  was  so  widely  different  from  that 
of  my  brothers  and  sisters,  I  do  not  know. 

As  for  myself,  I  was  far  from  being  either  happy 
or  proud.  My  boyish  love  of  freedom  was  stronger  than 
ambition.  I  did  not  dream  that  I  was  to  be  educated 
along  with  his  son,  but  that  certain  difficult  tasks  were 
to  be  required  of  me,  which  I  was  not  sure  I  could 
perform.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  going  to  cease 
to  belong  to  myself;  for,  once  engaged  in  my  task,  I 
felt  I  must  do  it,  if  I  killed  myself  at  it,  rather  than 
disappoint  his  lordship's  expectations  of  me. 

I  waited  with  extreme  impatience  the  return  of  my 
father.  My  mother  was  not  less  anxious. 

"Well?"  she  said  at  my  father's  return. 

I  had  never  seen  his  face  so  grave. 

He  did  not  reply  to  her,  but  advancing  towards  me, 
he  said : 

"  George,  I  have  just  heard  what  you  did,  and  you 
did  well,  but  it  is  not  worth  speaking  of  further,  and 
you  were  right  to  keep  still  about  it.  You  heard  what 

Lord  L has  promised  you.  He  speaks  of  giving 

you  advantages,  and  we  have  not  the  right  to  refuse 
them.  Now,  it  remains  for  you  to  prove  that  in  edu- 


A   HAPPY  ACCIDENT  25 

eating  you,  he  really  does  give  you  advantages.  In 
future,  you  are  to  live  two  lives.  For  a  few  hours  each 
day  you  will  live  at  the  castle,  where  you  are  to  take 
your  lessons  with  his  son.  You  will  see  what  it  is  to  be 
rich  and  noble;  but  for  the  rest  of  the  day  you  will 
live  at  home,  where  you  will  continue  to  see  what  it  is 
to  be  a  peasant's  son.  Now,  my  boy,  if  the  day  ever 
comes  when  you  curse  in  your  heart  the  station  in 
which  you  were  born  and  lust  after  one  above  you; 
when  you  blush  to  call  me  father  and  secretly  spurn 
your  mother,  that  day,  I  shall  wish  that  you  had  never 
been  born ;  for  that  day  you  will  prove  that  his  lord- 
ship was  polishing  brass  and  not  gold.  But  if  you  have 
good  sense,  if  you  can  keep  your  head  level,  no  matter 
how  high  you  may  climb,  if  you  can  remember  your 
origin  without  false  shame,  if  you  can  keep  your  heart 
clean  as  well  as  your  hands,  if  your  education  can 
make  you  flexible  without  being  fastidious;  if,  like  a 
cat,  you  can  fall  on  your  feet  whenever  you  fall,  then 
you  are  saved.  The  greatest  misfortune  that  can  hap- 
pen to  a  man  is  not  to  be  neglected,  but  to  be  valued  for 
more  than  he  is  worth.  Neglected,  he  is  forced  to  play 
no  part,  for  he  has  no  reputation  to  keep  up;  but 
lauded  for  something  which  he  isn't,  he  is  continually 
obliged  to  hide  his  weaknesses,  to  assume  virtues  which 
he  hasn't,  and  lives  in  a  perpetual  state  of  fear  and  de- 
ceit. I'd  rather  be  the  lowest  beggar  than  a  mean  man 
set  up  in  a  high  place." 

I  was  too  young  to  understand,  perfectly,  the  drift 
of  what  my  father  said,  namely,  that  education  quite 
as  often  unfits  a  man  for  the  duties  of  life  as  fits  him 
for  them;  but  I  felt  keenly  that  he  distrusted  my  power 
to  learn,  and  I  secretly  resolved  that  he  should  not  be 
disappointed  in  me.  Besides,  the  fact  that  I  was  to  see 
the  young  lord  every  day,  and  study  with  him,  put  an 
entirely  new  face  on  the  matter.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
I  could  not  help  but  learn,  just  to  fit  myself  to  be  near 
him. 


CHAPTER   III 

A  TUTOR  OF  THE  OLD  REGIME 

THE  next  morning  at  nine  o'clock  I  accompanied  my 
father  to  the  castle.  Both  of  us  were  dressed  in  our 
best;  and  we  walked  in  silence,  hand  in  hand.  I  think 
my  father  himself  was  nervous ;  but  as  for  me,  the  most 
absolute  despair  and  terror  had  succeeded  all  my  pretty 
dreams,  and  I  would  have  given  anything  in  the  world 
to  have  obliterated  my  glorious  yesterday,  and  to  be 
running  barefoot  in  the  dewy  grass  untroubled  by  the 
least  notice  of  me.  A  thick  mist  covered  my  eyes,  and 
my  throat  swelled  with  the  pain  of  unshed  tears.  All 
at  once  my  father  said: 

"  Do  you  remember  very  well  what  I  said  to  you 
last  night,  George?" 

"Yes,   sir." 

"  There  is  something  else  I  want  to  say  to  you.  I 
said  you  were  going  to  live  two  lives.  Every  morning 
you  are  to  start  to  the  castle  with  your  Sunday  clothes 
on,  and  your  brothers  will  be  wearing  their  patched 
trousers  and  going  barefoot.  They  are  not  to  share 
your  studies,  and  when  their  faces  and  hands  will  be 
sunburnt,  yours  will  be  white.  But  for  a  time,  at  least, 
you  will  come  home  every  noon.  The  young  lord's 
health  will  not  allow  him  to  study  more  than  a  few 
hours  in  the  morning.  When  you  come  home  I  want 
you  to  take  off  your  clothes  at  once,  put  on  the  old 
ones,  and  if  no  task  is  given  you  to  do  at  home,  you 
are  to  help  me  as  usual — you  have  shown  me  that  you 
can  keep  a  quiet  tongue  in  your  head — now  keep  on 
holding  it.  Don't  undertake  to  make  your  brothers 
discontented  about  what  you  see  and  hear  and  learn. 
I  don't  want  the  whole  household  to  be  interested  in 
your  experiences  at  the  castle — that  concerns  you,  alone. 

26 


A  TUTOR   OF  THE   OLD   REGIME        27 

If  you  find  that  you  are  not  equal  to  this  opportunity, 
don't  go,  on  pretending  to  be.  Tell  me  frankly  at  once, 
and  I'll  see  that  you  are  set  free." 

"Would  you  rather  have  me  give  it  up,  father?" 

He  sighed,  he  was  silent  a  moment,  and  then  said 
with  an  effort,  squeezing  my  small  hand  tightly  in  his 
big  one: 

"  No,  George,  I  should  be  proud  if  my  son  could 
show  that  he  had  a  good  head,  could  take  a  gentleman's 
education  and  be  a  gentleman,  not  a  conceited  upstart. 
Will  you  promise  me  to  try  to  do  your  best  ?  " 

"Yes,  father,  I  promise  you  that  I  will  work  with 
all  my  might." 

"  Come  on,  then.  Courage,  lad ! "  He  was  looking 
down  at  me,  and  for  the  first  time  noticed  my  extreme 
timidity  and  pain,  and  his  face  brightened  a  little. 
"  Good !  you  are  not  foolhardy,  at  least — you  know  it 
isn't  going  to  be  as  easy  as  it  looks,  don't  you? — but 
see  here!  if  down  in  my  heart  I  didn't  believe  you 
capable,  I  should  be  ashamed  to  be  leading  you  up  here 
to  put  you  to  the  test." 

He  quickened  his  pace,  and  soon  we  were  before  the 
castle.  Never  had  it  appeared  so  colossal,  nor  I  so 
little  and  insignificant.  It  was  a  large,  somber-looking 
building  of  dark  gray  stone,  which  looked  as  if  it  might 
have  been  the  work  of  giants,  and  destined  to  last  as 
long  as  the  soil  on  which  it  stood.  It  was  built  on 
the  summit  of  a  broad,  rounded  hill,  and  was  surrounded 
by  magnificent  oaks  and  plane  trees,  which  at  this  hour 
threw  their  lengthened  shadows  towards  the  west. 

On  entering  the  castle  we  were  shown  up  a  broad 
marble  stairway  which  led  to  a  long  corridor  at  the  end 
of  which  was  the  class-room.  It  was  a  very  large  room, 
admirably  lighted  and  aired  by  six  large  French  win- 
dows; three  of  them  looking  to  the  south,  and  three  to 
the  east.  The  morning  sunlight  gave  it  a  cheerful  air, 
which  the  scanty  furniture,  extremely  plain  and  limited 
to  what  was  necessary,  would  hardly  have  done.  The 


walls,  delicately  tinted  with  a  bluish  green,  had  no  or- 
naments beyond  maps  of  various  kinds,  some  well-filled 
bookshelves  and  a  huge  fireplace  in  which  some  logs 
were  burning  brightly. 

Four  little  tables,  covered  with  books,  pens,  and  other 
articles  of  study,  occupied  the  center  of  the  room,  be- 
fore three  of  which  stood  an  upright  chair.  The  fourth 
table  was  much  lower  and  peculiarly  shaped  to  fit  about 
a  reclining  chair. 

We  found  no  one  in  the  room  but  the  tutor,  a  man 
probably  thirty  or  thirty-five  years  old,  somewhat  be- 
low medium  height,  slender,  active,  seeming  to  sparkle 
with  life.  There  wasn't  the  slightest  air  of  the  peda- 
gogue about  him,  and  so  much  of  natural  kindness  in 
his  bearing  and  in  the  expression  of  his  face,  that  he 
inspired  me  at  once  with  a  feeling  of  confidence  and 
affection. 

He  rose  from  one  of  the  tables  as  soon  as  we  were 
shown  in,  and  advanced  towards  us  with  an  outstretched 
hand. 

"  Mr.  Graham,  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  and  your 
son,  and  I  hope  we  shall  soon  be  good  friends."  He 
took  my  hand,  pressing  it  affectionately  and  smiling 
kindly  at  me.  My  fear  vanished  in  a  moment.  I  was 
sure  that  we  should  be  friends.  I  looked  at  my  father: 
his  face,  too,  had  lighted  up. 

"You  know  how  to  read,  of  course,"  he  continued  in 
his  singularly  pleasant  voice. 

"Yes,  sir,  a  little,"  I  answered. 

"  And  what  have  you  read  ?  " 

"  I  have  read  *  The  Pilgrim's  Progress,'  and  '  Robin- 
son Crusoe/  and  a  little  of  the  Bible,  and  some  of 
'Plutarch's  Lives.'" 

"  Good !  That's  a  boy's  best  library.  You  have  com- 
menced well;  and  I  dare  say  you'd  be  a  great  deal 
happier  to-day  to  be  thrown  on  some  desert  island  than 
to  come  here  to  begin  the  life  of  a  student,  eh?"  and 
he  patted  my  cheek. 


A  TUTOR   OF  THE   OLD   REGIME        29 

"Yes,  sir,"  I  replied  in  all  seriousness. 

He  smiled,  and  pointing  to  one  of  the  tables,  told 
me  that  it  was  mine,  bidding  me  sit  down  by  it.  Then 
he  put  a  volume  of  Greek  Mythology  into  my  hands, 
told  me  to  read  about  the  wanderings  of  Ceres  in  search 
of  Proserpine,  and  said  he  would  ask  me  to  tell  him 
about  it  when  I  had  finished. 

I  buried  myself  in  the  book,  while  he  spoke  in  a  low 
voice  to  my  father.  When  I  raised  my  head,  at  the 
end  of  my  reading,  I  was  alone  with  him.  He  seemed 
pleased  with  my  way  of  telling  the  story;  and  when,  in 
recounting  the  experience  of  Ceres  in  nursing  Tripto- 
loinus  back  to  health,  I  called  the  mother  foolish  in 
her  fears,  he  interrupted  me  eagerly  to  say: 

"  How  right  you  are.  She  was  a  foolish  mother, 
wasn't  she?  She  thought  it  possible  for  her  boy  to 
grow  strong  and  fine  without  ever  knowing  any  pain 
and  hardship.  That  can't  be,  you  know.  I  am  glad 
you  noticed  that.  Well,  go  on." 

He  let  me  tell  the  story  in  my  own  way  without 
wishing  to  put  his  own  words  into  my  mouth,  and 
listened  as  attentively,  and  with  as  much  apparent  in- 
terest as  if  he  were  hearing  it  for  the  first  time. 

I  remember  this  as  a  marked  characteristic  of  his 
manner  with  his  pupils — he  was  never  languid,  never 
pedantic ;  the  schoolmaster  never  absorbed  the  man  in 
him.  He  was  never  our  inflexible  master,  he  was  our 
companion,  keenly  interested  in  whatever  we  were  do- 
ing, and  seeming  himself  to  be  learning  it  with  us  and 
sharing  with  us  the  enthusiasm  and  delight  of  con- 
scious growth.  He  had  so  admirably  digested  his 
learning  that  it  was  conspicuous  nowhere.  I  have  since 
seen  men  of  erudition  whose  learning  has  absorbed  all 
their  vitality,  so  that  they  seem  no  longer  human,  but 
to  be  leather-bound  books  with  legs  and  a  dreary  voice. 
Perhaps  there  is  nothing  crueler  in  the  experience  of 
the  young  in  their  exuberant  freshness,  than  to  be 
brought  into  contact  with  these  hidebound  creatures. 


30         THE   JOURNAL   OF  A  RECLUSE 

What  scorn  they  feel  and  rightly  feel  for  knowledge 
mummified  into  the  rigidity  of  uselessness.  How  su- 
perior they  feel  in  their  power  to  laugh,  to  joke,  to 
run  like  deer,  to  feel,  to  think,  to  talk  in  their  own 
wild,  free  way.  They  are  alive.  He  is  dead  and  un- 
fortunately for  them,  not  buried  yet.  He  cannot  train 
minds,  he  can  only  cram  them;  and  cramming  leads 
to  mental  indigestion,  to  the  stifling  of  the  soul  under 
a  pressure  of  matter. 

But,  if  no  greater  misfortune  can  happen  to  the 
young  than  to  be  crammed  by  a  pedant,  or  neglected 
by  an  ignoramus;  on  the  other  hand,  no  greater  good 
fortune  can  befall  them,  than  to  come  under  the  care 
of  a  really  well-trained  mind,  a  beautiful,  broad,  elas- 
tic nature.  Such  a  man  was  our  tutor,  Richard  Glenn. 
He  was  so  human,  in  the  largest  sense  of  the  word.  He 
could  speak  with  equal  ease  and  intelligence  to  a  peas- 
ant, a  lord,  a  child,  or  a  woman,  and  that  without  of- 
fensive condescension  or  affected  elevation.  He  seemed 
to  be  a  man  of  universal  experience,  and  to  under- 
stand you  intuitively.  He  had  within  him  a  great  fund 
of  warm  affection,  which  never  degenerated  either  into 
weakness  or  into  sentimentality.  We  adored  him,  but 
at  the  same  time  we  deeply  respected  him.  I  do  not 
know  how  he  made  us  feel  that  in  spite  of  all  his 
kindness  and  his  affection  for  us,  he  had  an  iron  will 
which  we  could  neither  melt  by  our  tears  and  en- 
treaties, nor  bend  by  sulking  or  persistence.  His  "  no  " 
and  his  "  yes  "  were  final,  and  we  liked  them  to  be  so, 
and  felt  that  he  was  just. 

He  had,  too,  that  rare  preservative  against  pedan- 
try, a  keen  sense  of  humor.  He  never  took  exaggerated 
views  of  things,  but  kept  the  sane  level  of  common 
sense.  We  hear  a  great  deal  about  methods  of  teach- 
ing in  educational  circles.  If  you  had  asked  him  what 
his  method  was,  he  would  have  answered,  with  reason, 
that  he  had  none.  He  taught  in  a  hundred  ways,  as 
the  need  or  the  occasion  required.  Sometimes,  the  big 
study-hall  rang  with  our  mirth,  and  we  were  learning 


A  TUTOR   OF   THE   OLD   REGIME        31 

and  laughing  at  the  same  time;  and  if  the  laugK 
threatened  to  get  the  upper  hand,  he  knew  how  to  lead 
us  back  to  our  tasks  with  a  beautiful  seriousness  that 
never  missed  its  aim.  There  were  times  when  he  seemed 
not  one  man,  but  twenty.  He  had  a  remarkable  power 
of  mimicry,  and  a  dramatic  gift  rarely  seen  off  the 
stage.  His  reading  of  the  great  poets  was  something- 
unforgettable ;  and  in  memory  of  it,  I  think  that  if 
I  were  asked  to  name  the  most  valuable  natural  gift 
of  a  great  teacher,  I  should  say  it  was  the  power  to 
read  well.  I  say  natural  gift  advisedly,  for  I  do  not  at 
all  mean  what  is  called  elocution.  No  one  can  be 
taught  to  read  well;  it  is  as  much  a  gift  born  with  one 
as  the  gift  for  music,  painting,  and  poetry;  and  elo- 
cution no  more  resembles  it  than  a  powder  puff  covered 
with  rouge  resembles  the  healthy  cheek  of  youth,  glow- 
ing with  living  color.  It  takes  heart  and  brain  to  read 
well;  it  only  takes  a  little  parrot-like  capacity  for  imi- 
tating to  make  an  elocutionist. 

I  have  seen  Richard  Glenn's  face  pale  and  flush  as 
he  read,  and  his  eyes  fill  with  tears;  I  have  heard  his 
voice  tremble  with  genuine  feeling;  and  we,  too, 
trembled  as  we  listened  with  anger  or  scorn,  pity  or 
affection,  according  to  the  emotion  which  he  was  por- 
traying. 

When  I  look  back  and  try  to  recall  the  salient  features 
of  his  instruction,  it  seems  to  me  that  they  may  be 
summed  up  in  the  effort  to  furnish  us,  not  so  much 
with  facts,  as  with  principles.  The  chief  value  of  a 
difficult  lesson  wasn't  the  learning  of  the  lesson  itself, 
but  the  discipline  in  concentration  and  perseverance 
which  it  furnished.  He  hated  all  slovenliness  in  the 
form  of  inattention  and  careless,  half-learned  work.  He 
would  never  repeat  his  direction  or  instructions  if  he 
saw  that  we  were  listless.  He  never  allowed  us  to  say 
"  I  can't ; "  and  if  the  phrase  slipped  out  inadvertently, 
how  his  fine  gray  eyes  would  flash,  and  his  rich  voice 
ring  out: 

"Up!  up!  man,  and  try!     Come!  that's  a  coward's 


32          THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

word.  Let  me  never  hear  it  again  from  your  lips — 
you,  who  are  a  Scot,  with  the  memory  of  Bruce  and 
Wallace  as  an  inheritance!" 

He  had,  too,  a  horror  of  lying,  treachery,  or  in- 
gratitude. He  used  to  quote,  with  gusto,  the  proud 
saying  of  the  Greek  aristocracy :  "  We,  the  truthful " 
— implying  that  it  was  a  trait  of  the  base-born  to  lie, 
a  mark,  too,  of  cowardice. 

After  that,  his  chief  solicitude  was  to  make  us  love 
the  best  literature,  and  know  what  made  its  excellence. 
I  have  said  that  his  first  question  to  me  was :  "  What 
have  you  read  ?  "  and  it  was  also  one  of  the  last  ques- 
tions that  he  ever  addressed  to  me.  Books,  he  felt 
to  be  the  safest,  best  companions  of  the  intelligence; 
and  he  said  that  any  man's  education  was  assured  if 
he  knew  a  good  book  from  a  poor  one,  and  loved 
reading. 

Therefore,  he  set  us  at  once  to  reading  the  world's 
great  masterpieces,  troubling  himself  very  little,  at  first, 
as  to  whether  we  understood  the  purport  of  the  author 
— he  wished  to  accustom  us  to  the  atmosphere  of  the 
best,  so  that  we  might  feel  at  home  in  it,  and  recognize 
it  wherever  we  found  it.  He  believed  that  all  ex- 
planations outside  of  our  experience  were  useless,  and 
a  mere  waste  of  time.  He  never  troubled  our  pleasure 
in  an  author  by  any  questions  about  style  or  grammar. 
He  never  required  us  to  analyze  in  any  way  what  we 
read,  feeling  sure  that  analytic  methods  were  not  the 
way  to  make  us  feel  truth  and  beauty;  because  they 
would  tend  to  make  us  critical  before  we  had  learned 
to  be  appreciative,  occupying  us  with  the  skeleton,, 
when  we  should  be  enjoying  the  beauty  of  the  body 
of  the  work.  But  he  often  referred  to  some  suggestive 
passage  in  a  book  which  we  had  read,  when  a  proper 
occasion  offered,  thus  recalling  it  to  our  memory  with 
vivid  force.  For  example,  he  very  much  disliked  em- 
phasis of  all  sorts — loud  speech,  noisy  music,  vulgar 


A   TUTOR   OF   THE   OLD   REGIME        33 

over-dressing,  officious  politeness;  and  once  calling  our 
attention  to  a  striking  example  of  vulgarity  in  dress 
and  manner  in  some  American  tourists,  he  said: 

"  Do  you  remember  Jeanie  Deans's  experience  with 
Mrs.  Dabby  and  the  queen  ?  '  Mrs.  Dabby,'  she  says, 
'  was  dressed  twice  as  grand,  and  was  twice  as  big,  and 
spoke  twice  as  loud,  and  twice  as  muckle  as  the  queen 
did,  but  she  hadna  the  same  goss-hawk  glance  that 
makes  the  skin  creep  and  the  knee  bend;  and  though 
she  had  very  kindly  gifted  her  with  a  loaf  of  sugar 
and  twa  pounds  of  tea,  yet  she  hadna  athegither  the 
sweet  look  that  the  queen  had  when  she  put  the  needle- 
book  into  her  hand.' " 

After  that,  Mrs.  Dabby  stood  for  us  as  the  symbol 
of  the  vulgar  parvenu,  and  we  invented  a  Mr.  Dabby 
and  a  great  quantity  of  young  Dabbies  to  fit  all  sorts 
of  impertinent  boasters,  either  national  or  individual. 

He  had  a  way  at  times  of  thinking  aloud,  as  it  were, 
before  us;  and  sometimes  the  seed  fell  on  stony 
ground,  sometimes  it  found  soil  and  took  root.  I  re- 
member, one  day,  we  passed  a  little  gnarled  crab-tree 
on  a  ledge  of  rock  and  immediately  afterwards  a  fine 
old  oak,  with  a  generous  stretch  of  branches  and  ample 
shade. 

"  How  foolish  it  would  be,"  he  said  musingly,  "  to 
quarrel  with  the  gnarled  little  tree  because  it  is  not 
so  fine  as  the  big  one.  It  has  grown  as  large  as  it 
could.  It  isn't  to  be  blamed  for  its  size,  any  more 
than  the  big  one  is  to  be  praised  as  if  it  consciously 
grew  into  symmetrical  beauty.  Shouldn't  we  have  the 
same  forbearance  with  our  cold  and  halting  friends? 
They  are  as  responsive  as  they  can  be.  Let  us  cease 
to  be  exacting  with  them,  and  pity,  not  condemn  them, 
for  their  infirmities." 

I  do  not  recall  that  he  ever  deliberately  thrust  moral 
lessons  into  our  faces.  He  was  not  at  all  of  those  who 
are  so  solicitous  that  you  shall  see  their  light  shine, 


34          THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

that  they  thrust  their  little  candles  under  your  nose, 
singe  your  eyebrows  and  drip  tallow  all  over  your 
clothes;  but  he  managed  to  make  us  feel  sincerely  that 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  moral  health  as  beautiful  and 
desirable  as  health  of  the  body;  and  that  the  signs  of 
it  are  perfect  truthfulness,  sincerity,  kindness,  helpful- 
ness, self-respect,  self-control,  courage,  and  fulfilment  of 
duty. 

To  him  education  meant  not  an  accumulation  of  facts 
and  philosophic  systems  in  the  memory,  but  the  free 
development  of  all  the  faculties  of  the  mind  so  that  a 
man  can  find  in  them  the  source  of  his  happiness — an 
awakened  curiosity,  a  power  of  logical  thinking,  a  soul 
vibrating  with  sensibility,  but  strong  enough  to  receive 
the  shocks  of  evil  fortune  without  breaking  under  them. 

There  was  very  little  of  what  is  called  science  ad- 
mitted into  the  approved  course  of  study  at  that  time. 
Theology  still  dominated  the  theory  of  the  universe; 
but  Richard  Glenn  had  read  the  Encyclopedists  of. 
France,  he  had  studied  Lamarck,  he  had  observed  and 
thought  for  himself.  Without  presuming  to  dogmatize, 
he  laid  in  us  the  foundations  of  a  wise  skepticism  that 
accepted  fearlessly  the  conclusions  of  enlightened  rea- 
son, no  matter  how  humiliating  they  might  be  to  our 
self-love;  and  tolerated  contrary  opinions  venerable 
through  age  and  custom. 

I  was  thirty-four  when  Darwin's  "  Origin  of  Spe- 
cies "  first  appeared  in  1859,  and  the  main  features  of 
its  theory  had  been  familiar  to  me  from  boyhood. 

However,  the  prominent  feature  of  our  education 
was  linguistic.  I  happened  to  share  with  my  young- 
master  an  aptitude  for  learning  languages,  and  we 
passed  from  Latin  and  Greek  to  the  four  great  lan- 
guages of  modern  Europe:  French,  German,  Spanish, 
and  Italian.  Our  tutor  was  not  a  philologist  in  the 
strict  sense  of  the  word,  that  is,  he  loved  languages, 
not  for  their  words,  but  for  the  ideas  which  they  ex- 
pressed; and  the  learning  of  a  new  language  was  to 


A  TUTOR   OF   THE   OLD   REGIME        35 

us  the  entrance  into  a  new  literature — a  new  way  of 
looking  at  this  old  world  and  at  human  life.  He  had 
his  preference,  too;  he  especially  loved  French  for  the 
light  and  life  in  it,  and  succeeded  in  making  us  love  it 
too;  conversing  with  us  in  it  as  often  as  in  English; 
so  that  in  writing  it  now,  I  seem  to  be  writing  in  my 
mother-tongue. 


CHAPTER  IV 

LOOKING    FORWARD 

THUS  the  years  of  my  childhood  slipped  away  in  the 
happiness  of  conscious  growth,  and  the  joy  of  delight- 
ful companionship.  But  there  were  some  shadows  in 
the  sunny  landscape.  The  fruits  of  my  education  be- 
gan to  show  themselves  in  a  few  years,  in  a  marked 
difference  in  my  tastes  and  my  interests  from  those 
of  my  brothers  and  sisters.  As  I  was  naturally  a 
boy  of  very  strong  family  affections,  the  consciousness 
of  this  difference  and  its  resulting  estrangement,  was 
extremely  painful  to  me;  and  in  spite  of  my  father's 
prohibition,  I  tried  to  lessen  it  by  speaking  of  my 
life  and  my  studies  at  the  chateau.  But  I  soon  found 
that  instead  of  awakening  an  interest,  I  only  excited 
envy  and  dislike  in  my  brothers.  They  called  me  Lord 
George  in  derision,  and  asked  me  why  I  didn't  go  and 
live  in  the  chateau  for  good,  if  I  liked  it  so  well.  Then 
I  saw  the  wisdom  of  my  father's  prohibition,  and  it  grew 
easy  for  me,  nay,  it  became  necessary  for  me  to  hide 
my  real  self  from  them,  and  I  began  to  live  two  lives; 
one  of  the  soul,  the  other  of  the  body,  the  mere  sur- 
face of  me.  Yet  I  didn't  grow  indifferent  to  my  fam- 
ily; on  the  contrary,  my  affections,  wounded  by  their 
misunderstanding,  seemed  to  deepen,  I  knew  them  bet- 
ter than  ever  before.  I  saw  what  I  had  not  remarked, 
as  a  child,  that  my  father  and  mother  were  as  solitary 
as  I,  and  that  my  father  accepted  his  lot  with  a  pa- 
tience that  savored  much  more  of  philosophy  than 
of  virtue.  Perhaps  I  judged  him  by  myself,  but  it 
seemed  to  me  that  he,  too,  had  been  a  dreamer  in  his 
youth,  with  that  fatal  devise  "  all  or  nothing,"  which 
prepares  the  way  for  so  much  bitter  disillusion,  and 

36 


LOOKING  FORWARD  37 

that  he  had  deliberately  destroyed  his  power  to  dream 
any  more,  and  had  grasped  firmly  the  nettle  of  reality 
to  crush  its  stings  beyond  the  power  of  wounding  him. 

Like  all  those  who  dream,  decisive  action  had  prob- 
ably been  difficult  for  him,  and  had  been  learned  late. 
The  duties  of  husband  and  father,  in  which  he  had 
sought  happiness,  had  finished  by  making  a  drudge  of 
him,  whose  chief  good  was  his  daily  bread. 

My  mother  vaguely  felt  this  bitterness  in  him,  and 
wretched,  because  she  was  powerless  to  sweeten  it, 
took  her  refuge,  womanlike,  in  a  kingdom  of  noble 
dreams  which  she  called  religion,  accepting  her  destiny 
without  [complaint,  finding  a  satisfactory  solution  to  all 
its  complications  in  the  reflection,  "  God  knows  best." 

As  for  my  relations  at  the  chateau,  they  were  most 
harmonious.  The  young  lord  treated  me,  always,  as  if 
I  were  his  equal — which  does  not  mean  that  I  felt 
that  I  was.  He  had  in  his  bearing  something  superior 
which  imposed  respect  without  effort,  something  which 
lifted  him  so  far  above  his  infirmity  that  it  very  rarely 
occurred  to  me  to  pity  him,  and  although  he  was  only 
two  months  my  senior,  I  felt  him  far  older  than  I. 
Perhaps  suffering  in  strong  characters  tends  to  mature 
them.  While  I  was  still  thinking  as  a  boy,  he  thought 
as  a  man,  and  as  a  proud  ambitious  man,  treated  un- 
justly by  nature,  and  resolved  to  make  his  physical 
weakness  forgotten  by  the  solidity  of  his  mind. 

The  strong  bond,  the  subtle  inexplicable  sympathy 
between  us,  had  grown  stronger  with  the  years.  We 
were  together  a  great  deal,  often  making  little  excur- 
sions alone;  I  wheeling  his  chair  and  listening  to  him, 
as  he  talked  of  what  interested  him,  or  exchanging 
opinions  with  him  and  forming  plans  for  the  future. 
He  especially  liked  the  little  clearing  in  the  park  where 
we  had  first  met. 

I  remember,  particularly,  one  afternoon  which  we 
spent  there  when  we  were  sixteen  years  old — I  almost 
a  man  in  stature,  he  much  smaller,  much  feebler,  but 


38 

with  a  superb  head  and  face  that  made  one  forget  every- 
thing else.  I  never  tired  of  it,  it  fascinated  me  anew 
every  time  I  looked  at  it — that  beautiful  face  with 
the  wonderful  eyes  which  seemed  to  speak  twenty  lan- 
guages. 

It  was  a  lovely  afternoon — one  of  those  warm,  fe- 
cond  spring  days  when  the  sap  seems  to  circulate  more 
quickly  in  the  veins  and  cells  of  every  living  thing, 
and  plants  aspire  to  see  the  light  in  flowers  and  leaves. 
White  and  yellow  butterflies  darted  through  the  per- 
fumed air,  and  a  confused  low  murmur  of  insect  life 
rose  from  the  grass. 

We  had  ceased  talking  a  moment,  and  it  was  he  who 
first  broke  the  silence,  saying: 

"  Do  you  ever  have  certain  hours  when  you  feel  a 
surplus  of  life  surge  through  you,  and  your  soul  feels 
too  large  for  your  body,  and  would  break  its  prison  just 
to  breathe  fully? — when  if  you  were  a  woman  you 
would  weep  bitterly  and  not  know  why  you  were 
weeping?  Sehnsucht!  that's  the  word — sick  with  long- 
ing for  an  unknown  happiness, — and  all  the  suppressed 
energy  cramped  within  you  cries  out  for  action!  ac- 
tion! Oh,  for  a  month  I  have  felt  force  enough  in 
me  to  create  a  world — and  look  at  me,  poor,  impotent 
wretch,  glued  to  this  cursed  chair !  "  He  struck  the  arm 
of  the  chair  a  violent  blow — and  his  face  grew  white 
and  then  purple  with  the  blood  that  rushed  to  it.  I 
looked  at  him  a  moment  in  amazement.  I  had  never 
seen  him  so  agitated,  and  I  felt  embarrassed,  not  only 
because  I  was  thus  an  involuntary  witness  of  what  he 
himself  would  be  the  first  to  term  girlish  weakness,  but 
because  he  had  expressed  the  aimless  unrest  and  melan- 
choly which  had  often  seized  me  of  late,  especially 
during  the  long,  mild  nights  when  the  moonlight  bright- 
ened my  room.  How  many  times,  unable  to  sleep,  I  had 
risen,  my  heart  swelled  with  vague  desires,  my  head 
burning  with  a  thousand  projects  for  the  future,  in 
which  I  saw  myself  rich,  famous,  loved! — loved  by 


LOOKING  FORWARD  39 

whom?  Whose  was  the  face  that  always  came  to  me 
in  these  lonely  hours,  sometimes  smiling,  sometimes  sad? 
I  had  not  the  courage  to  dream  out  the  fancy  fully — 
Oh,  it  was  madness  to  do  that;  as  well  wish  for  the 
moon  and  the  stars  as  playthings! 

I  looked  at  my  young  master,  reddening  as  much 
as  he,  hung  my  head  and  said  nothing. 

"If  I  had  your  body,  your  health  to  second  my  am- 
bition," he  continued,  "  do  you  think  I  should  stay  here, 
burying  my  head  in  books,  rethinking  the  thoughts  of 
others,  acting  over  again  the  deeds  of  others?  No,  I 
should  create  for  myself  a  world  in  which  I  should  see 
my  ideas  take  body  and  live,  rising  in  large  and  beauti- 
ful cities,  or  marching  in  victorious  armies.  Oh,  you 
don't  know  how  many  times  I  run,  I  jump,  I  fly  across 
the  country,  mounted  on  a  fiery  horse  at  the  head  of 
brave  men." 

He  hesitated;  his  voice  trembled;  there  were  tears 
in  his  eyes.  My  heart  beat  furiously.  He  dashed 
the  tears  away  with  a  quick  gesture,  and  smiled  at  me, 
saying : 

"  Come,  come,  don't  look  so  wretched,  Sancho.  Your 
poor  old  Don  Quixote  has  come  to  his  senses  again. 
That's  the  first  and  the  last  time  you'll  ever  see  him 
Charge  at  windmills.  You  see,  I  heard  some  of  our 
guests  talking  this  morning.  One  of  them  was  a  man 
who  has  traveled  a  great  deal  and  has  just  come  back 
after  an  absence  of  fifteen  years.  He  was  talking  of  the 
general  unrest  among  the  people — they  are  rising  every- 
where, discontented,  trying  to  shake  off,  not  only  the 
social,  but  the  natural  inequality  which  exists  among 
men — and  making  a  fiasco  of  it  from  the  French  Rev- 
olution to  Owen's  social  settlement  at  New  Harmony, 
Ind.,  in  the  U.  S.  By  the  way,  he  visited  that  settle- 
ment in  '28,  talked  with  Owen  himself — who  was  con- 
fident that  he  was  in  a  fair  way  to  restore  Eden  on 
earth — and  his  settlement  then  was  riddled  from  top 
to  bottom  with  discontent,  envy,  hatred,  and  all  sorts 


40          THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

of  anti-social  feelings  among  its  members,  and  toppled 
over  like  a  card-house  that  it  was,  the  very  next  year — 
isn't  it  all  such  stupid  nonsense!  I  am  only  a  boy  in 
years,  I  know,  but  I  don't  have  to  live  to  be  fifty  to 
know  that  no  social  organization  is  possible  with  ab- 
solute equality  as  a  basis.  There  must  be  men  who 
work  and  men  who  think,  there  must  be  poverty  as  well 
as  riches  to  offer  an  incentive  to  labor,  and  when  it 
comes  to  a  downright  fighting  chance  for  distinction, 
it's  the  poor  boy,  not  the  rich  fellow,  who  has  all  odds 
in  his  power.  How  do  you  suppose  a  man  can  work 
with  all  his  might,  when  pleasure  and  ease  are  at  his 
elbow  calling  to  him  in  a  hundred  different  forms, 
while  the  poor  devil  has  hunger  and  hardship  at  his 
heels,  forever  stinging  and  pricking  him  on.  What  do 
you  suppose  is  the  origin  of  the  nobility  but  natural 
superiority,  the  keener  eye,  the  quicker  brain,  the  longer 
staying  power;  and  what  is  the  cause  of  its  degeneracy 
but  leisure,  wealth  and  power.  We  shall  deserve  to  go 
down  when  we  only  hold  our  place  by  inherited  name 
and  not  inherited  natural  power.  Do  I  deserve  to  be 
your  lord,  when  with  a  turn  of  your  wrist  you  could 
dash  me  down  that  cliff  yonder?  Oh,  I  think  of  these 
things  lying  awake  at  night,  and  I  see  how  the  great 
men,  now,  are  coming  from  the  ranks,  how  their 
thoughts  are  moving  the  world,  their  discoveries  and 
inventions  are  revolutionizing  labor,  and  we,  we  are 
like  those  sterile,  hot-house  roses  running  by  cultivation 
to  nothing  but  showy  petals.  Oh,  I  want  to  see  more, 
know  more,  feel  more,  that  I,  too,  may  think  and  move 
others  to  think;  and  for  that  I  need  you,  George — I 
need  your  legs  to  run  about  for  me,  your  eyes  to  see 
for  me,  in  places  where  I  cannot  go.  I  shall  ask  my 
father  to  let  us  go  abroad  next  year — will  you  go  with 
me,  George?" 

"  Go  ?  Of  course  I  will.  How  good  you  are,"  and 
in  a  transport  of  enthusiasm  I  pressed  to  my  lips  the 
hand  that  he  had  extended  towards  me. 


LOOKING  FORWARD  41 

At  this  moment  I  saw  a  figure  in  white  furtively 
approaching  behind  him,  and  a  smile  on  the  beautiful 
face,  the  eyes  full  of  loving  mischief.  She  lifted  her 
hand  to  warn  me  that  I  must  not  give  a  sign  of  her 
approach,  and  while  the  young  lord  continued  to  speak 
of  his  plans,  she  stole  nearer  and  nearer,  and  then  quite 
close  behind  him,  suddenly  clapped  her  two  white  hands 
over  his  eyes,  at  the  same  time  kissing  him,  saying: 

"Who  is  it?" 

"Who  is  it?  Why  who  in  the  world  but  you,  Mar- 
garet. What  other  woman  but  you  and  mother  would 
want  to  kiss  me." 

"  What  other  woman  ?  Why  all  women.  You  dear, 
handsome  fellow,  if  they  knew  you  as  well  as  we  do. 
Isn't  that  so,  George?"  and  she  turned  to  me. 

In  every  life  there  are  critical  moments,  big  with 
consequences,  good  or  evil.  I  was  standing  before  her, 
as  I  had  stood  a  hundred  times  without  betraying  my- 
self either  to  her  or  to  my  own  full  consciousness,  but 
at  this  moment  it  flashed  over  me  that  I  adored  her. 
I  gave  a  name  to  this  sentiment  that  made  me  timid 
and  awkward  in  her  presence,  and  dream  of  her,  absent. 

I  answered  nothing.  I  trembled  from  head  to  foot. 
I  felt  the  warm  blood  surge  to  my  heart,  then  return 
in  floods  to  my  face. 

What  would  she  think  of  me,  if  she  guessed  my 
secret?  What  would  her  brother  think,  who  esteemed 
and  loved  me  beyond  my  merits? 

But  she  did  not  seem  to  notice  my  confusion;  she 
was  thinking  only  of  him. 

"You  see,"  she  continued,  "he  does  not  answer. 
That  is  because  he  does  not  know  you  so  well  as  I, 
although  you  are  always  together  of  late.  Do  you 
know  that  you  are  not  giving  me  any  more  of  your 
time,  little  brother?  What  have  you  two  to  say  to  each 
other  that  is  so  important  that  you  must  steal  away  to 
say  it.  I  get  tired  alone.  They  are  going  to  call  me  a 
woman  pretty  soon,  and  force  me  to  shine  in  society, 


42          THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

but  before  that  I  want  to  be  your  little  sister,  your 
girl  sister  a  while  longer.  I  am  afraid  of  this  big  world 
that  would  laugh  at  me  if  it  knew  what  really  pleases 
me  instead  of  its  noisy  showy  self — a  walk  in  the  woods 
gathering  wild  flowers;  a  chat  with  my  brother,  and 
George  near  by,  or  a  fairy  story  in  which  the  princes 
are  always  good  and  handsome,  and  love  only  just  such 
silly  girls  as  myself." 

"  But  that  is  just  what  I  don't  care  for  any  more, 
Margie."  He  stroked  her  hand  as  he  talked.  "  I  am 
tired  of  being  a  boy,  I  want  to  be  a  mafn.  I  want  to 
see  this  world  which  frightens  you.  The  fairy  stories 
charm  me  no  longer.  It's  real  people  I  am  hungry  to 
know — people  who  think,  people  who  act." 

"  How  strange !  "  she  said  thoughtfully.  "  It  seems 
to  me  so  beautiful  to  be  young  and  not  to  have 
to  care  about  all  these  stupid  realities.  I  should  like 
always  to  be  just  eighteen.  Nineteen  seems  so  old,  so 
old.  Do  I  already  seem  old  to  you,  George  ?  " 

She  looked  at  me  quizzically,  her  fresh,  young  face 
full  of  charm,  and,  though  still  a  child  in  some  respects, 
she  had  all  the  feminine  instincts  of  coquetry.  She  must 
have  known  she  was  beautiful.  Her  mirror  told  her 
that  every  day.  I  do  not  know  what  I  answered,  but 
I  still  hear  her  cheerful  laugh  ring  out,  and  if  I  should 
live  to  be  a  hundred,  I  shall  never  forget  what  she  was 
to  me  that  afternoon  in  June — to  me  a  boy  in  years, 
but  a  man  in  feeling.  Something  inexpressibly  sweet 
and  adorable,  away  above  me,  whose  beauty  and  sweet- 
ness were  never  meant  for  me.  And  yet  so  generous,  so 
perfect,  so  disinterested,  was  my  love  that  I  was  con- 
tent to  be  her  faithful  dog,  and  find  my  happiness  in 
her  smiling  tolerance  of  me. 

She  had  coupled  my  name  with  her  brother's  in  men- 
tioning what  she  liked  best,  and  that  was  quite  enough 
to  fill  me  with  a  foolish,  rapturous  ecstasy,  in  which  I 
lived  for  weeks  like  one  surrounded  by  a  rosy  mist  that 
softens,  spiritualizes,  beautifies  all  objects  within  the 


LOOKING  FORWARD  43 

range  of  vision.  I  saw  nothing  as  it  really  was.  I  lived 
in  a  sort  of  joyous  delirium,  which  exalted  and  at  the 
same  time  softened  my  soul;  so  that  I  was  capable  of 
all  the  heroisms,  and  yet  vibrated  sensitive  as  the  wind 
harp  to  the  slightest  touch;  but  I  was  ignorant  of  real 
life  as  a  babe  in  its  mother's  arms. 

Although  nearly  all  my  lessons  at  the  chateau  had 
been  learned  and  recited  with  Lord  Eliot,  there  were 
some  hours  in  the  modern  languages  in  which  Lady 
Margaret  was  allowed  to  join  us.  It  was  in  these 
hours  that  I  learned  to  know  well  all  her  tastes.  I  have 
but  to  shut  my  eyes  to  see  her  in  fancy,  as  I  saw  her 
in  the  class-room,  always  dressed  with  exquisite  sim- 
plicity; the  dazzling  freshness  of  her  youthful  beauty, 
her  only  ornament.  She  sat  by  preference  near  the 
south  window,  the  morning  sun  in  summer  gilding  her 
rich  brown  hair  as  she  bent  over  her  book.  She  was 
not  so  serious  and  attentive  a  student  as  her  brother, 
and  her  eyes  often  wandered  outside;  but  she  had  a 
quick  ear,  imitated  sounds  well  and  learned  to  speak 
a  foreign  tongue  with  a  truer  accent  than  either  her 
brother  or  I  acquired.  Her  voice  had  a  peculiar  mag- 
netic quality  that  often  made  me  tremble  with  delight. 

I  was  always  so  conscious  of  her  presence  that  I  was 
more  or  less  stupid  before  her,  and  suffered  horribly 
at  times,  thinking  that  she  must  consider  me  a  block- 
head; but  she  was  too  well-bred  ever  to  show  anything 
but  the  most  perfect  kindness  to  me,  although  she  was 
never  expansive  or  affectionate  with  me  as  with  her 
brother,  whom  she  adored.  She  liked  better  to  be  with 
him  than  with  anyone  else;  and  as  a  proof  of  the 
generosity  of  her  nature,  I  do  not  recall  a  single  in- 
stance in  which  she  showed  any  jealousy  of  me,  though 
she  often  saw  my  company  preferred  to  hers.  She 
wished  him  to  be  happy  in  his  own  way. 

And  certainly  he  deserved  the  deep,  faithful  love 
which  she  gave  him.  I  have  mentioned  the  unusual 
force  of  his  mind;  but  I  have  given  no  idea  of  a  cer- 


44          THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

tain  tenacity  of  will  that  he  had,  and  a  beautiful  courage 
in  suppressing  signs  of  physical  suffering  which  was 
as  wonderful  as  it  was  beautiful.  He  could  not  en- 
dure to  be  pitied.  Pity  seemed  to  him  an  expression 
of  superiority,  and  he  was  too  proud  to  accept  it  from 
anyone  but  his  mother.  There  was  not  a  weak  fiber 
in  his  mind  of  steel.  He  never  limited  himself  to  the 
tasks  assigned,  but  always  outran  his  lessons,  and  I, 
who  would  have  been  ashamed  to  be  left  behind,  did 
with  difficulty  what  was  mere  play  for  him.  I  owe  to 
his  example  a  force  in  persistency  that  does  not  natu- 
rally belong  to  me.  I  have  always  been  naturally  in- 
clined to  doubt  my  own  powers,  and  therefore  am 
easily  discouraged.  He  taught  me  what  can  be  done 
with  moderate  powers  by  sticking  to  a  task  day  after 
day. 

At  first,  his  quiet  confidence  in  himself,  his  habit  of 
saying  "  I  know "  in  place  of  "  I  think  so,"  seemed  a 
a  want  of  modesty;  but  it  was  only 'the  admirable  ve- 
racity of  a  mind  naturally  strong  and  dominant.  I 
learned  that  he  never  expressed  an  opinion  until  he 
had  grounds  for  it,  that  he  never  undertook  anything 
that  he  could  not  do.  He  knew  his  limitations  and  kept 
within  the  sphere  of  them. 

He  had  naturally  a  very  passionate  nature,  but  he 
early  learned  that  all  outbursts  of  violence  ended  by 
crippling  still  more  his  feeble  store  of  physical  strength, 
and  he  conquered  his  irritability  as  he  conquered  the 
daily  tasks  set  before  him.  He  was  an  indefatigable 
reader,  and  every  trait  of  heroism  or  wisdom  or  moral 
elevation  excited  in  him  a  passionate  admiration,  and 
I  have  often  heard  him  express  a  noble  jealousy  be- 
cause he  had  not  had  his  part  in  some  beautiful  deed. 
This  thirst  for  the  ideal  as  it  shows  itself  in  action  was 
his  dominant  characteristic,  accompanied  by  a  power 
of  distinguishing  the  great  from  the  little,  the  true 
from  the  false. 

In  the  course  of  our  historical  studies,  we  had  read 


LOOKING  FORWARD  45 

in  connection  with  the  rise  and  growth  of  Catholicism 
many  of  the  lives  of  the  saints,  and  he  drew  from  this 
reading  a  consolation  that  was  really  touching.  These 
examples  of  moral  heroism  and  exalted  abnegation 
seemed  at  last  to  have  shown  him  a  field  of  action  in 
which  the  soul  was  the  actor;  the  body,  the  enemy.  I 
do  not  mean  that  he  became  a  disciple  of  asceticism. 
On  the  contrary,  he  vigorously  combated  the  monkish 
ideal,  and  believed  that  to  withdraw  from  the  world  is 
not  the  most  effective  way  of  combating  its  evils,  that 
it  is  on  the  contrary  a  kind  of  sublime  egotism  result- 
ing, as  all  egotisms  do,  in  mutilating  the  soul  by  blur- 
ring its  visions.  One  world  at  a  time,  was  his  devise; 
he  did  not  believe  in  eating  dry  bread  in  this  world  in 
the  hope  of  having  it  well-buttered  in  the  next,  nor 
that  it  is  necessary  to  make  a  hell  of  this  life  to  gain 
heaven  in  a  prospective  one. 

But  what  touched  him  in  these  lives  was  just  the 
qualities  he  needed  in  his  own,  namely,  the  courage  to 
bear  pain — the  energy  that  never  sleeps. 

As  for  me,  I  drew  from  them  quite  another  lesson. 
I  was  struck  by  the  genius  for  loving  manifested  by 
these  saints  whose  ardent  hearts  slaked  their  thirst  with 
intoxicating  draughts  of  divine  love.  I  saw  that  there 
are  not  two  ways  of  loving,  and  that  the  saint  as  well 
as  the  sinner  employs  the  same  language.  I  saw  that 
all  these  immense  loves  sought  solitude  and  were  nour- 
ished in  silence.  I  saw,  also,  that  they  were  woven  of 
a  thousand  illusions,  bizarre  explanations  of  the  most 
trivial  events,  and  that  reason  went  often  very  far 
astray  in  these  flights  of  the  soul  to  embrace  infinity. 

In  this  colossal  egotism,  I  perceived  the  man  in  the 
saint,  understood  him  and  pardoned  him.  Did  not  I, 
too,  love  far,  far  beyond  me?  but  life  was  smiling  on 
me.  I  felt  no  need  yet  for  examples  of  courage,  and 
I  found  a  language  for  my  emotions  in  this  language 
of  love  that  I  learned  in  the  Lives  of  the  Saints.  Their 
austerities  repelled  me,  their  devotion  attracted  me.  I 


46          THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

remember  particularly  how  Saint  Bernard  won  me 
wholly,  when  his  austerity  made  me  quite  despair  of  his 
humanity,  by  his  letters  to  the  monks  who  had  left  him, 
and  one  in  particular  on  the  death  of  his  brother.  His 
tenderness  when  he  was  tender  was  more  than  admir- 
able, it  was  sublime, — the  superb  flowering  of  a  long, 
ungracious  reticence.  He  was  like  the  century  plant 
that  spends  itself  in  a  single  flowering ;  but,  to  tell  the 
truth,  I  liked  better  the  rose  that  blooms  every  summer. 


CHAPTER   V 

ON    FOREIGN    SHORES 

So  passed  my  boyhood  into  youth.  My  experiences 
were  not  those  of  young  students  in  general.  It  was 
not  my  vacations  that  brought  to  me  ideas  of  liberty 
and  joy;  on  the  contrary,  they  were  infinitely  stupid, 
sterile  periods  which  I  must  travel  alone.  They  com- 
menced with  the  middle  of  July  and  ended  about  the 
1 5th  of  September.  They  meant  no  more  lessons,  no 
more  visits  at  the  castle,  no  more  of  that  sweet  expan- 
sion of  soul  in  an  atmosphere  fitted  to  nourish  senti- 
ment and  joy.  The  days  dragged  slowly,  drearily  by. 
I  tried  as  much  as  possible  to  be  alone,  to  find  my 
society  in  my  dreams  and  the  memories  of  the  absent 
ones  I  loved.  My  father,  finding  that  I  continued  in 
favor  at  the  castle,  had  gradually  ceased  to  require 
anything  of  me,  allowing  me  to  do  quite  as  I  pleased, 
saying  that  as  too  many  cooks  spoil  the  broth,  he 
wouldn't  interfere  any  longer  with  my  education  as  a 
gentleman.  I  thought  that  he  treated  me  coldly;  per- 
haps he  did  not  intend  to;  but  I  felt  hurt,  and  my 
mother,  with  the  intuition  of  love,  saw  that  I  was 
wounded  and  secretly  lavished  an  unwonted  tenderness 
on  me.  But  because  I  feared  to  be  the  cause  of  any 
further  estrangement  between  her  and  my  father,  I 
avoided  as  much  as  possible  being  seen  alone  with  her. 
How  much  she  must  have  suffered,  and  how  much  I 
could  have  done  to  lessen  her  suffering  by  an  appear- 
ance of  contentment,  I  know  now.  But  youth  is  cruel 
and  egoistic,  because  it  lacks  the  deep  experiences  of 
the  heart.  It  is  not  deeply  rooted  in  its  environments 
and  is  ready  to  quit  them  at  the  first  seductive  voice  that 
calls  it.  It  does  not  live  in  the  present ;  it  belongs  to  the 

47 


48          THE   JOURNAL   OF   A   RECLUSE 

future  by  all  its  hopes  and  dreams.  When  our  lord 
and  his  family  returned  in  the  fall,  life  recommenced 
for  me.  What  a  restless,  nervous  joy  possessed  me, 
some  days  before  their  arrival!  I  could  not  sleep 
at  night,  I  could  scarcely  eat  during  the  day.  The  sun 
seemed  to  shine  with  a  sweeter,  lovelier  light,  inun- 
dating me  with  floods  of  joy.  No  more  solitude,  no 
more  sadness,  and  my  heart  overflowing  with  happi- 
ness made  all  things  easy,  I  forgave  my  father  his  cold- 
ness and  my  brothers  their  envy.  I  furtively  kissed 
my  mother's  hand,  and  she,  caressing  me  gently,  showed 
by  her  moist  eyes  and  trembling  lips  that  she  knew  the 
terrible  sadness  of  those  who  do  not  suffice  to  make 
the  happiness  of  the  ones  they  love. 

Judge  then  of  my  joy  when  I  learned  in  my  eighteenth 
year  that  I  was  to  accompany  my  young  lord  to  the 
continent  and  remain  with  him  until  the  completion 
of  his  education  by  foreign  travel.  It  meant  the  com- 
pletion of  my  own  education,  too,  and  not  only  that, 
but  the  cessation  of  the  painful  dual  life  I  had  been 
leading.  I  should  belong,  now,  wholly  to  my  young 
master;  for  as  to  any  idea  of  any  individual  future 
separate  from  his,  it  never  so  much  as  entered  my  head. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  his  father,  in  educating  me  along 
with  his  son,  had  destined  me  to  be  the  latter's  secre- 
tary and  assistant  in  whatever  plans  he  might  wish  to 
undertake,  and  although  he  had  not  committed  himself 
so  far,  I  feel  sure  that  that  was  his  intention.  At  any 
rate,  it  was  the  intention  of  my  young  master,  who  had 
several  times  assured  me  that  he  needed  me,  and  wished 
never  to  be  separated  from  me. 

With  regard  to  my  position  for  the  present,  I  was 
to  continue  my  study  with  him  under  his  tutor  who  was 
to  accompany  us,  and  I  was,  also,  to  render  him  the 
services  of  a  valet,  under  the  directions  of  an  experi- 
enced man  who  had  been  with  him  from  his  child- 
hood, and  was  physician,  nurse,  and  valet  in  one. 

We  set  sail  for  France  in  June,  1842,  spent  a  year 


ON   FOREIGN    SHORES  49 

and  a  half  in  various  travels  on  the  continent  in  which 
we  were  sometimes  joined  by  the  family,  and  finally 
settled  at  Paris.  The  year  had  been  a  truce  to  serious 
study;  we  had  been  looking  at  cities,  visiting  museums, 
art-galleries  and  fashionable  salons,  getting,  in  short, 
a  bird's-eye  view  of  life,  preparatory  to  settling  down 
to  our  own  life-task.  And  what  was  that  task?  For 
my  own  part,  I  am  ashamed  to  confess  that  I  did  not 
at  all  know.  I  had  neither  definite  plans,  nor  definite 
ambition.  I  lived  from  day  to  day  in  a  sort  of  happy 
dream,  knowing  no  more  of  what  real  life  is,  as  an  in- 
dependent, thoughtful  existence  implying  struggle  and 
prudence,  than  if  I  had  been  a  child  in  my  mother's 
arms.  As  I  have  hinted  before,  my  passionate  attach- 
ment to  my  young  lord,  and  his  confidence  in  me,  made 
it  almost  impossible  for  me  to  conceive  of  a  calling 
which  would  separate  me  from  him.  Those  of  his  tastes 
which  I  did  not  naturally  share  I  cultivated,  because 
they  were  his — and  as  social  questions  deeply  interested 
him,  I,  too,  turned  my  attention  in  that  direction,  and 
though  I  hadn't  the  temerity  to  suggest  remedies,  I 
became  tolerably  expert  in  detecting  the  weaknesses 
of  the  present  system  of  society.  That  it  requires  ab- 
solutely no  penetration  to  detect  them,  when  one  suffers 
from  them,  is  self-evident;  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
it  isn't  those  who  suffer  from  them  who  are  the  first 
to  complain — so  far  as  I  know,  no  great  labor  move- 
ment was  ever  instituted  by  a  laborer,  no  plausible  so- 
cial theory  was  ever  proposed  by  a  man  who  himself 
bore  the  burdens  of  the  very  poor  and  wrote  with  a  hand 
made  callous  by  hard  work.  It  is  the  man  who  has 
looked  on  at  the  stone-breaking  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  imagined  how  his  own  back  and  arms 
would  ache  at  the  task,  who  has  been  the  first  to  de- 
nounce stone-breaking  as  inhuman,  and  to  declare  that 
if  it  must  be  done,  we  should  all  take  our  turn  at  it. 
To  be  sure,  he  doesn't  seem  to  show  any  more  eager- 
ness to  take  his  turn  than  anybody  else,  but  he  enjoys 


50 

himself  immensely  talking  about  it;  and  if  he  talks 
long  and  loud  enough,  he  may  end  by  creating  a  social 
revolution,  as  witness  Rousseau. 

Of  course,  we  read  Rousseau — it  was  the  day  of  so- 
cial experiments,  and  Rousseau  was  the  prophet  of  all 
sentimental  reformers.  Undoubtedly,  like  all  young 
people,  we  should  have  been  fascinated  beyond  the 
power  of  criticism  by  that  wonderfully  lucid,  rapid 
style,  palpitating  with  feeling,  which  seduced  his  age, 
had  we  not  read  him  with  our  tutor,  who  tempered 
our  admiration  by  the  sane  criticism  of  reason  and  ex- 
perience. While  admitting  the  power  of  his  genius,  ha 
showed  us  the  limitations  and  exaggerations  of  it,  due 
to  his  morbid  sensibility  and  sentimental  egotism.  He 
made  us  feel  that,  while  no  writer  has  ever  been  so 
keen-eyed  and  true  an  anatomist  of  the  sentimental 
weaknesses  and  passions  of  the  human  heart,  no  writer 
of  equal  power  was  ever  so  profoundly  ignorant  of  hu- 
man nature,  as  it  appears  in  the  vast  majority  of  men. 
He  knew  only  one  man — himself;  and  that  man  he 
idealized.  He  measured  strength  by  emotivity ;  and  when 
he  wept  and  trembled,  he  felt  himself  divine.  In  his 
solitude  he  multiplied  the  image  of  himself  and  called 
it  humanity.  It  never  entered  his  wildest  conception 
that  man  has  come  up  from  the  brutes,  and  bears  the 
stamp  of  his  brute  origin  in  a  thousand  low  instincts 
and  desires  that  civilization  can  no  more  eradicate  than 
the  earth  can  get  rid  of  her  soil  and  still  nourish  the 
life  which  she  begets.  He  dreamed  of  a  primitive  man 
who  sprang  perfect  from  the  soil,  whose  days  were 
spent  in  delicious  reveries  and  noble  thoughts,  broken 
only  by  a  few  hours  of  necessary  toil  in  which  he  found 
the  joy  of  legitimate  action  at  the  same  time  that  he 
supplied  himself  with  simple  food  and  simple  raiment. 
He  degenerated  by  increased  wants,  by  pride,  ambition, 
cruelty;  and  he  called  his  degeneracy  civilization.  He 
hewed  down  the  forests,  he  bridged  rivers,  he  robbed 
and  murdered  his  neighbors,  and  called  it  conquest;  he 


ON   FOREIGN    SHORES  51 

buiit  cities  and  they  sheltered  rapacity,  poverty,  vice — 
and  the  stench  and  shame  of  his  life  cries  to  heaven  in 
every  civilized  nation  on  the  globe.  Away  then  with 
civilization — step  backward  into  the  freedom  and  beauty 
of  life  with  nature  as  the  primitive  races,  the  so-called 
savages,  live  it,  and  you  will  be  saved. 

It  all  sounds  absurdly  bald  and  flat,  ridiculously  false, 
stripped  of  its  rhetoric  and  sophistry — this  social  ideal 
of  Rousseau's,  as  reduced  in  this  way  to  its  elements; 
but  it  was  seductive  eloquence,  it  was  the  truth  on  the 
inspired  lips  of  a  prophet,  to  the  restless  idealists  of  his 
age.  It  was  Don  Quixote's  harangue  on  the  acorns  ex- 
panded to  volumes :  "  Happy  times  and  happy  ages 
were  those  which  the  ancients  termed  the  golden  age! 
not  because  gold,  so  prized  in  this,  our  iron  age,  was 
to  be  obtained  in  that  fortunate  period  without  toil; 
but  because  they  who  then  lived  were  ignorant  of  those 
two  words,  Mine  and  Thine." 

There  are  Don  Quixotes  still  delivering  the  old  ha- 
rangue; and  there  are  not  wanting  many  Sancho  Pan- 
zas,  now  as  then,  who  listen  in  open-mouthed  wonder, 
and  believe  their  doughty  knights  are  to  lead  them  into 
a  land  flowing  with  milk  and  honey;  or  as  Schopen- 
hauer puts  it,  "  a  do-nothing  land  in  which  everything 
grows  of  itself  and  roasted  pigeons  fly  around,  and 
every  one  finds  his  ardently  beloved  at  once,  and  wins 
her  without  difficulty." 

Young  as  we  were,  neither  my  lord  Eliot  nor  I 
believed  in  this  do-nothing  paradise,  and  we  had  no  il- 
lusions about  the  perfectibility  of  man,  but  saw  that 
the  human  race  is  as  deeply  indebted  for  its  progress 
to  its  imperfections  as  to  its  perfections;  and  that  they 
are  not  to  be  eliminated  any  more  than  the  shadows  from 
the  sunlight. 

To  be  sure,  we  did  not  arrive  at  this  mature  reflec- 
tion so  early  without  being  helped  to  it.  That  is  always 
a  great  day  in  which  some  profound  truth  lights  up 
the  dark  places  of  the  mind,  and  I  shall  never  forget 


52          THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

one  snowy  winter  day  in  Elberfeld,  when  I  chanced 
upon  a  stray  volume  of  Ludwig  Borne  in  the  inn  at 
which  we  were  stopping.  Borne  has  been  a  favorite  of 
mine  ever  since.  If  he  has  not  the  brilliant  whimsical 
wit  of  Heine  with  its  sudden  transformations  into  gen- 
uine poetry,  he  has  a  very  delightful  vein  of  humor 
all  his  own,  and  a  command  of  stinging  sarcasm,  based 
on  a  large  fund  of  common  sense,  that  assures  him  a 
place  among  the  immortals. 

The  day  in  question  I  read  his  little  allegory  enti- 
tled Honestus.  I  have  read  it  many  times  since  and 
always  with  a  fresh  wonder  that  no  writer  has  ever 
found  in  it  a  suggestion  for  an  anti-Utopian  romance 
to  show  the  reverse  side  of  the  countless  looking  back- 
wards and  forwards  into  ideal  states  of  society  that 
are  no  more  practicable  than  a  midsummer  night's 
dream,  or  Gonzalo's  famous  commonwealth  in  The 
Tempest,  whose  "  latter  end  forgets  the  beginning." 


CHAPTER  VI 

A    FABLE    FOR    COMMUNISTS    AND    DREAMERS    OF    HUMAN 
PERFECTIBILITY 

HONESTUS  is  the  story  of  a  young  Swedish  artist, 
naturally  kind-hearted  and  joyous,  who  once  had  a 
chance  at  trying  to  set  the  world  right,  and  set  it  all 
wrong,  with  as  fatal  consequences  as  rash  Phaeton's 
attempt  to  drive  the  chariot  of  the  sun. 

"  Make  all  men  good  "  was  his  generous  cry  to  the 
magician  who  had  dazzled  him  with  his  wonders. 

"  Make  all  men  good :  make  them  happy ! " 

The  magician  paled,  and  said  in  a  low,  trembling 
voice : 

"  Don't  ask  that,  my  son.  I  dare  not  refuse  your 
request;  but  do  not  persist  in  it.  Sin  is  rottenness,  and 
sin  is  the  source  of  life."  But  Oscar  in  the  intoxica- 
tion of  his  philanthropy  did  not  understand  the  old 
man's  words.  He  fell  down  before  him,  clasped  his 
knees  and  with  hot  tears  streaming  down  his  face, 
implored :  "  O  mighty  father,  give  men  virtue,  give 
them  happiness." 

The  magician  granted  the  prayer.  The  midnight 
hour  struck.  The  magician  stretched  his  magic  wand 
towards  the  east,  west,  north,  and  south,  and  pro- 
nounced mysterious  words.  Sweet  harp  tones  sounded 
from  the  heavens,  and  from  the  earth  rose  hideous 
laughter.  Oscar,  trembling  between  rapture  and  horror, 
asked  the  meaning  of  the  horrible  laughter.  "  Hush, 
my  son;  that  is  the  spirit  of  malice.  Do  not  irritate 
him.  I  have  no  power  over  him;  come  out  into  the 
air,  that  we  may  see  our  work." 

They  stepped  out;  it  was  a  still,  solemn  night,  and 
Oscar  lifted  his  eyes  devoutly  to  the  starry  sky  above 

53 


54          THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

him.  The  old  man  was  touched :  "  Rejoice  once  more 
in  this  sweet  night,  it  is  the  last  on  earth.  Night  is 
sin,  and  the  sun  will  never  more  set." 

They  passed  into  a  gloomy  street,  and  saw  a  ladder 
leaning  against  a  house,  and  a  man  climbing  it  who 
looked  anxiously  about  him.  "  Will  you  let  that  hap- 
pen ? "  asked  Oscar.  "  Perhaps  he  will  murder  the 
careless  sleepers."  "  Be  calm,  my  son.  The  theft  has 
already  been  committed.  The  midnight  hour  gave  the 
villain  his  honesty  again,  and  he  is  bringing  back  the 
stolen  goods." 

Honestus  and  the  joyous  youth  went  on,  seeing  every- 
thing, themselves  invisible.  "  What  voices  are  those  I 
hear  weeping  in  yonder  great  building?"  "They  are 
robbers  and  murderers  in  prison,  they  are  praying." 
They  entered  a  room  lighted  by  a  night-lamp.  A  beau- 
tiful woman,  with  loosened  hair,  knelt  before  the  cradle 
of  her  child,  kissed  the  sleeping  infant  and  wept  over  it. 
A  man  stood  on  the  threshold  of  the  door,  and,  redden- 
ing, stretched  his  hand  towards  the  woman,  'and  the 
mother  covered  her  eyes.  "  Who  are  they,  Honestus  ?  " 
"  That  man  is  the  seducer,  who  has  come  to  the  wife 
of  his  friend  at  the  hour  she  appointed  for  him.  My 
magic-staff  was  swift.  Repentance  came  before  the 
guilt;  the  mother  is  imploring  forgiveness  of  her  child, 
and  the  man  is  departing  in  sadness  from  the  sweet 
sin." 

They  came  to  a  great  square,  beautified  with  many 
trees ;  and  from  all  the  houses  round  about  rushed  thou- 
sands of  men;  soldiers  hastened  past,  infantry  and  cav- 
alry; flags  waved,  drums  beat,  cannons  were  planted, 
and  everywhere  resounded  the  clang  of  weapons  and 
the  cries  of  men.  "  What  has  happened  ?  "  "  Those 
who  come  out  of  the  houses  are  gamblers,  cheats,  de- 
bauched men  and  spies,  whom  the  magic  of  virtue  has 
chased  out  of  their  lurking-places;  and  power,  unac- 
customed to  virtue  and  trembling  before  her,  has  sent 
out  her  multitudes  to  meet  this  boldness." 


'A   FABLE   FOR   COMMUNISTS  55 

The  morning  dawned,  but  the  stillness  of  night  re- 
mained. No  carts  rattled  over  the  streets,  no  huckster 
shrieked,  no  hammer-stroke  was  heard,  the  market-place 
was  empty.  "  What  is  the  reason  of  this  stillness, 
Honestus  ?  "  **  Men  have  no  longer  any  false  desires : 
they  are  satisfied  and  rest."  Before  a  baker's  shop, 
stood  a  clamoring  multitude,  that  asked  in  vain  for 
bread.  The  bread  had  already  been  given  away  for 
nothing  to  the  famishing.  Hundreds  of  corpses  lay  on 
the  streets.  "  Who  are  these  unfortunates  ?  "  "  They 
are  spies,  that  would  rather  die  of  hunger  than  feed 
themselves  longer  on  disgrace."  They  came  before  the 
palace  of  the  king,  which  was  unguarded.  The  king 
no  longer  feared  anyone,  since  no  one  feared  him  any 
longer.  They  entered  the  hall  where  the  courtiers  were 
assembled,  and  they  saw  wet  eyes.  An  old  gray-haired 
man  threw  himself  weeping  at  the  feet  of  a  youth,  and 
said :  "  Forgive  me.  I  have  slandered  you."  They 
entered  the  king's  apartments.  The  king  sat  upon  his 
throne,  and  a  woman  rushed  shrieking  through  the 
crowd,  threw  herself  on  her  knees  and  cried :  "  Hold 
back  your  sword ;  he  is  innocent ! "  And  the  king's 
counselor  paled  and  said :  "  O  master,  I  have  deceived 
thee."  And  the  king,  weeping,  descended  from  his 
throne. 

Honestus  and  the  trembling  Oscar  hastened  out  of 
the  palace.  They  walked  along  the  river,  and  came 
upon  the  corpse  of  a  young  girl.  Oscar  turned  his  pale 
face  away.  "  Unhappy  creature ! "  said  Honestus. 
"  The  past  night  robbed  her  of  her  innocence,  and  in 
despair  at  the  loss  of  her  richest  jewel,  she  sought 
death  in  the  waves."  They  came  to  a  bridge,  and  on 
it  stood  a  tall,  pale  youth,  looking  now  at  the  sky,  now 
at  the  water.  He  was  a  pitiful  object,  yet  his  eye  was 
dry.  Oscar  felt  himself  powerfully  drawn  to  the 
stranger.  "Who  is  this  youth,  my  father?"  "Away, 
away,"  cried  Honestus  in  a  tone  of  horror,  "  and  weep, 
Oscar,  that  you  are  a  man."  "  O  stay,  my  father ; 


56          THE   JOURNAL   OF  A  RECLUSE 

speak,  who  is  this  suffering  youth  ?  "  "  Step  nearer, 
Oscar.  Look  at  these  cheeks,  how  pale  they  are !  Once 
they  were  rose-red  and  only  grew  pale  when  he  heard 
of  oppression.  Look  at  those  arms,  how  thin  and  slack 
they  are;  once  they  were  strong  and  hard  as  steel  to 
fight  for  freedom  and  justice.  Look  at  that  burnt-out 
eye.  Once  it  beamed,  lighted  by  heaven  itself,  to  kindle 
the  heart  of  a  pious  girl.  Ah!  he  was  so  strong  and 
good;  but  who  is  too  strong  and  too  good  for  the  se- 
ducer? The  sly  tools  of  power  slipped  up  behind  him 
to  ruin  him.  They  mingled,  in  his  healthy  soul,  what 
is  most  shameful  in  innocent  play,  most  intoxicating  in 
wine,  most  poisonous  in  love.  Then  he  yielded  to  base 
gold,  to  the  base  tinsel  of  honor.  They  led  him  from 
fun  to  frivolity,  from  frivolity  to  falseness,  from  false- 
ness to  crime.  This  ear,  once  open  only  to  the  voice  of 
virtue,  listened  slyly  for  the  unguarded  word.  This  eye, 
once  darting  glances  of  love,  sought  the  dark  bypaths 
of  confidence  and  killed  those  who  innocently  trusted 
it.  This  tongue  that  sang  love  and  friendship  became 
an  adder  and  stung.  Then  he  betrayed  the  true  friend 
that  died  yesterday  on  the  gallows.  The  deluded  man 
received  his  last  kiss  from  his  betrayer  and  whispered 
in  his  ear :  '  Revenge  me.'  The  devil  looked  at  him, 
laughing  with  scorn,  and  in  the  evening  he  rioted  with 
the  recompense  for  his  crime.  Then  came  the  fearful 
midnight  over  him,  the  midnight  which  at  your  request, 
Oscar,  I  gave  to  the  world.  A  frightful  dream  awoke 
him  from  his  slumber.  '  I  will  revenge  you,'  he  shrieked 
in  despair,  and  rushed  to  the  bridge. 

"  Since  midnight,  the  unhappy  wretch  has  sought  death 
in  the  waves,  fearing  to  find  it,  and  seeking  it  again." 
The  pale  youth  stared  now  at  the  water.  "  Hold  him 
back,  Honestus,"  cried  the  shuddering  Oscar ;  "  it  is  too 
terrible  to  appear  before  the  judge  with  such  fearful 
guilt."  "  Oscar,"  answered  the  magician,  "  here  ends 
my  power.  Sin  has  left  him,  repentance  has  come. 
What  he  owes  to  his  guilt,  he  will  repay."  Oscar  fell 


A   FABLE   FOR   COMMUNISTS  57 

on  his  knees  before  the  magician,  imploring  pitifully: 
"  Then  give  him  back  his  sins  and  take  away  repent- 
ance. Give  all  men  their  desires,  again.  Give  them 
back  their  vices.  Give  all  men  their  sins,  again."  • 

He  awoke — they  had  them,  again. 

I  remember  rising  from  the  reading  of  this  little  alle- 
gory, shocked,  as  it  were,  into  the  consciousness  that 
all  that  gives  color,  variety,  and  tragic  beauty  to  life 
comes  from  this  very  play  of  the  passions,  which  often 
results  so  fatally  to  the  happiness  of  the  individual. 
Kill  them  in  man,  tame  him  to  the  image  of  the  patient 
ox  that  draws  his  cart,  and  it  is  all  over  with  the  dig- 
nity and  beauty  of  life;  we  shall  have  exchanged  virtue 
and  struggle  for  impotence  and  stagnation. 

I  rushed  with  my  book  to  share  its  contents  with 
my  young  master.  He  was  not  so  excitable  as  I;  he 
read  it  through  attentively  and  said: 

"  He  is  right.  The  lily,  white  and  fragrant,  is  rooted 
in  mud.  It  isn't  an  air  plant." 

The  doctrine  of  equality,  we  felt,  also,  to  be  entirely 
false,  and  would  no  more  have  believed  it  possible  to 
make  a  wise  man  out  of  a  naturally  stupid  one  by 
changing  his  environment,  than  we  would  have  expected 
to  gather  roses  from  a  gooseberry  bush  by  planting  it 
in  a  rose-garden.  Therefore,  in  an  epidemic  of  social- 
istic theories,  we  presented  the  anomaly  of  two  enthu- 
siastic young  students  without  a  theory.  We  looked, 
we  listened,  and  were  content  to  learn. 


CHAPTER  VII 

STILL     LEARNING 

AT  Paris,  we  lodged  in  some  beautiful  apartments 
looking  out  on  the  Pare  Monceau.  Here  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life  I  had  a  certain  responsibility.  The 
health  and  comfort  of  my  young  master  were,  in  a 
great  measure,  in  my  hands.  But  the  services  which  I 
rendered  him  were  a  privilege  for  me  and  not  a  task. 
He  belonged  to  those  rare  souls,  intimacy  with  whom 
tends  to  increase,  rather  than  to  cool  the  affection.  Pos- 
sibly the  secret  of  this  lies  in  a  certain  chaste  reserve 
which  it  is  impossible  to  violate  without  being  either 
stupid  or  brutal,  and  I  was  neither  the  one  nor  the 
other.  I  knew  how  to  respect  that  delicate  veil  in 
which  every  beautiful  soul  wraps  itself,  without  entirely 
concealing  itself;  and  I  learned,  too,  though  perhaps 
later,  in  reflecting  upon  the  unbroken  harmony  of  our 
relations,  that  a  great  love  cannot  survive  a  great  inti- 
macy without  these  chaste  reserves.  We  become  so 
obtuse,  not  to  say  brutified,  by  custom  and  facility,  that 
it  requires  some  mystery  to  keep  alive  that  fear  and 
veneration  which  lie  at  the  bottom  of  every  profound 
sentiment.  This  friend  of  my  childhood  and  my  youth 
never  became  common  to  me;  that  is  to  say,  I  never 
penetrated  the  deepest  recesses  of  his  soul.  There  was 
always  in  him  some  new  ground  to  explore.  He  was 
interested  in  everything;  he  had  beautiful  enthusiasms 
which  were  not  mere  transitory  surface  excitements. 
He  had  an  unerring  taste  that  led  him  directly  to  what 
is  fine  and  noble,  a  power  of  losing  himself  in  thought 
and  reverie  which  to  a  great  degree  compensated  him 
for  the  malady  that  shut  him  out  from  action.  Seated 
in  the  shade  of  a  tree,  watching  apparently  the  patches 

58 


STILL   LEARNING  59 

of  blue  sky  through  the  foliage,  his  mind  took  flight, 
traveled  through  distant  countries,  and  brought  back 
their  treasures. 

People  were  naturally  more  to  him  than  books  or  pic- 
tures, and  though  aristocrat  by  birth  and  by  many  of  his 
tastes,  he  talked  willingly  with  everybody,  and  always 
with  profit  and  pleasure,  wherever  he  found  naturalness 
or  sincerity.  His  handsome  face,  his  natural  eloquence, 
a  rare  courtesy  that  always  distinguished  him,  made 
him  a  great  favorite  with  women ;  and  had  he  chosen, 
he  might  have  always  been  the  center  of  a  little  coterie 
of  devotees  who  would  have  asked  nothing  better  than 
to  flatter  and  amuse  him.  But  he  had  a  great  con- 
tempt for  what  is  Called  a  "  ladies'  man." 

"  I'll  leave  that  to  you,"  he  said,  jesting,  one  day  to 
me.  "You  have  more  time  to  waste  than  I,  and  are 
better  equipped  for  the  role.  There's  no  talking  seri- 
ously to  a  woman  under  fifty,  and  not  even  at  that  age, 
if  she  has  ever  been  a  great  beauty,  and  still  retains 
some  marks  of  it.  All  conversation  with  them  is  only 
a  disguised  coquetry  on  both  sides ;  and  by  the  time  you 
have  learned  how  to  say,  '  You  are  fascinating,  I  love 
you,'  in  a  thousand  different,  uncompromising  ways, 
there  is  no  time  for  anything  else.  There  are  a  few 
women  I  have  read  about,  I  should  like  to  have  known 
— women  with  hearts  and  brains  as  well  as  beauty. 
'  Should  I  have  forgotten  everything  but  their  beauty  ?  I 
don't  know.  I  think  not — but  I've  seen  no  woman,  as 
yet,  for  an  hour  of  whose  society  I  would  exchange  ten 
minutes  with  a  sensible  man.  As  for  the  cathedrals,  the 
art-galleries,  the  museums,  the  places  made  memorable 
by  great  historical  facts,  they  do  very  well  as  speaking 
for  a  man  in  his  absence,  but  I'd  turn  from  them  all  for 
a  day  with  the  man  himself  who  has  thought  and  lived." 

This  taste  had  undoubtedly  been  cultivated  by  his 
having  met  as  guests  of  his  father,  in  his  home  and  in 
the  capitals  of  the  kingdom,  the  most  brilliant  intellects 
of  his  time.  He  had  heard  them  discuss  serious  prob- 


lems,  and  his  precocious  intelligence  had  been  enriched 
in  a  remarkable  manner.  As  for  me,  my  life  had  passed 
wholly  without  incident,  or  without  any  occupation  but 
that  of  my  studies  and  the  familiar  duties  of  family 
life.  I  had,  therefore,  brought  to  Europe  the  inexperi- 
ence of  extreme  youth.  Everything  was  wonderful  to 
me,  everything  delighted  me — except  the  Florentine 
school  of  old  masters  in  the  art-galleries.  I  had  not 
yet  submitted  to  the  spell  there  is  in  the  names  of  Botti- 
celli, Bellini,  Ghirlandajo,  Fra  Filippo  Lippi,  Cimabue, 
and  Giotto. 

I  had  not  yet  studied  the  history  of  art  as  an  expres- 
sion of  religious  sentiment,  so  that  I  had  no  interest  in 
the  pictures  outside  of  the  canvas;  and,  there,  I  only 
saw  a  dreary  collection  of  dry,  cracked,  harsh-brown, 
sharp-nosed,  cadaverous  saints;  melancholy,  shapeless 
virgins;  pug-nosed  cherubs,  and  bulbous-headed,  pot- 
bellied infant  Christs  with  circles  around  their  heads  to 
distinguish  them  from  the  profane,  who  were  often 
much  more  attractive  to  me.  I  have  since  developed  a 
taste  for  some  of  these  very  pictures  that  I  would  not 
at  that  time  have  consented  to  live  with,  for  a  small 
fortune ;  but  I  am  not  prepared  to  say  whether  the  taste 
is  a  wholly  artificial  one  due  to  the  familiarity  that 
breeds  endurance  and  then  liking;  or  whether  it  is  a 
natural  development,  growing  out  of  an  acquired  power 
to  see  beauty  that  lies  deeper  than  surfaces. 

My  days  in  Paris  were  divided  into  three  parts:  in 
the  morning  I  read  and  conversed  with  my  lord  and 
our  tutor ;  in  the  afternoon  we  drove  out  to  see  the  city, 
the  parks  or  the  suburbs;  in  the  evenings  we  amused 
ourselves  in  society  or  at  the  theater.  Three  afternoons 
in  the  week  I  had  entirely  to  myself;  and  I  always 
passed  them  roaming  about  the  city,  sometimes  visiting 
various  places  of  historical  interest,  sometimes  spending 
hours  among  the  old  bookstalls  along  the  Seine.  One 
day  I  ran  across  an  old  copy  in  three  volumes  of  Mer- 
cier's  "  L'An  deux  mille  quatre  cent  quarante;  reve  s'il 


STILL   LEARNING  61 

en  fut  jamais."  The  date  of  its  publication  was  1786, 
and  I  learned  by  its  preface  that  it  had  first  appeared 
in  1770.  I  bought  it  at  a  bargain,  and  went  back  to  my 
lodgings  as  happy  as  if  I  had  been  lucky  in  a  specula- 
tion involving  a  fortune.  The  author  was  unknown  to 
me,  but  I  learned  later  that  he  had  also  written  a  book 
called  "  Tableau  de  Paris,"  a  very  interesting  and  faith- 
ful picture  of  the  life  and  appearance  of  the  capital,  as 
he  saw  it  at  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

His  "  Year  2440 "  interested  Lord  Eliot  and  myself 
very  much.  It  was  one  of  those  clever  dreams  about 
a  future  state  of  society  in  which  justice  and  plenty 
are  to  reign  on  earth,  and  poverty  and  crime,  if  not 
eradicated,  are  to  be  reduced  to  the  minimum.  There 
was  some  good  sense  in  the  book,  mingled  with  a  good 
deal  of  nonsense.  We  were  not  a  little  amused  at  the 
very  humble  and  subordinate  role  women  are  to  play 
under  this  new  regime,  the  author  showing  a  decided 
contempt  for  their  intelligence  and  a  great  deal  of  indig- 
nation over  the  important  part  which  they  play  in  so- 
cial life  at  present.  We  wondered  what  women  in  gen- 
eral would  think  about  it.  We  were  not  destined  to 
wonder  long.  Our  enlightenment  was  due  to  an  ac- 
quaintance that  I  made  shortly  after,  with  a  young  man 
of  twenty-three,  an  enthusiastic  communist  and  presi- 
dent of  an  association  whose  object  it  was  to  spread  the 
doctrines  of  communism,  and  awaken  a  spirit  of  dis- 
trust and  revolt  among  the  workingmen  and  the  poor. 

It  was  mere  chance  that  procured  me  this  acquaint- 
ance. I  had  lost  my  way  one  afternoon  in  an  obscure 
quarter  of  Paris,  and  I  asked  for  directions  of  the 
first  man  whom  I  met.  The  young  man  whom  I  ac- 
costed replied  courteously,  saying  that  his  way  led  in 
my  direction,  and  that  if  I  had  no  objection  he  would 
accompany  me.  I  thanked  him,  and  we  continued  our 
road  together.  I  had  not  spoken  very  much  before  he 
discovered  the  stranger  in  my  accent,  and  asked  me 
if  I  were  not  an  Englishman.  I  replied  that  I  was  a 


subject  of  England,  and  he  showed  at  once  a  great 
deal  of  enthusiasm  and  interest,  assuring  me  that  he 
had  studied  English,  had  even  spent  a  half  year  in 
London,  and  was  very  fond  of  the  English  nation,  not 
at  all  sharing  the  prejudices  of  his  countrymen. 

"  You  have,"  he  continued,  "  more  frankness,  more 
good  sense  in  your  country  than  we  have  in  ours.  You 
have  not  yet  been  so  stupid  as  to  show  that  you  can't 
govern  yourselves,  as  we  did  in  the  Revolution.  We 
have  lost  by  our  folly,  not  only  the  confidence  of  the 
soberer  part  of  our  own  nation,  but  that  of  all  nations. 
We  struck  a  blow  at  human  progress,  meaning  to  strike 
it  for  it,  from  which  it  may  take  centuries  to  recover." 
He  continued  to  speak  in  this  fashion,  and  finally  con- 
cluded by  inviting  me  to  be  present  at  one  of  the  assem- 
blies over  which  he  presided. 

I  was  not  long  in  accepting  his  invitation.  It  was 
an  excellent  opportunity  to  see  the  Frenchman  at  home, 
and  it  might  be  that  I  should  witness  another  revolu- 
tion in  the  egg. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

A    WOMAN    IN    REVOLT 

THE  meeting  took  place  in  a  large,  miisty-smeilmg, 
subterranean  hall,  badly  lighted,  and  furnished  with 
wooden  benches  and  straw-bottomed  chairs.  The  walls, 
up  to  a  certain  height,  were  blackened  by  the  pressure 
of  innumerable  dirty  shoulders  and  greasy  heads.  The 
ceiling  was  low  and  black  with  the  fumes  of  oil-lamps, 
suspended  from  a  jcentral  chandelier,  and  also  attached 
at  regular  intervals  along  the  walls.  At  one  end  of  the 
hall  ran  a  low  platform,  on  which  stood  an  ink-spotted 
table  and  two  or  three  chairs. 

It  was  a  chill,  cloudy  November  night,  and  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  crowded*  room  was  nauseously  close  and 
heavy  after  the  sharp  air  outside.  The  house  was  not 
yet  called  to  order;  every  man  had  his  hat  on;  many 
were  smoking,  and  amidst  the  confused  clatter  of  voices 
a  boisterous  laugh  rang  out,  now  and  then. 

My  dress  and  manner,  so  entirely  different  from  the 
rest  of  the  audience,  made  me  so  conspicuous  that  I 
was  at  once  pointed  out,  and  very  likely  would  not 
have  been  allowed  to  remain,  had  not  my  new  friend 
immediately  taken  me  under  his  protection.  The  whole 
experience  was  so  entirely  new  to  me  that  my  heart 
beat  rapidly  with  the  excitement  of  novelty,  and  I  looked 
with  eager  curiosity  at  these  young  men  (they  looked 
all  of  them  under  thirty)  ;  and  an  instinct  which  served 
me  in  place  of  experience  assured  me  that  these  hands 
were  too  nervous,  too  inexperienced,  to  mold  the  future 
well.  Their  faces  expressed  that  sort  of  precocious 
audacity  which  so  often  passes  for  intelligence.  Their 
language  was  in  harmony  with  their  faces.  It  was 

63 


64          THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

audacity  and  egotism  incarnate.  No  veneration,  no 
logic,  no  hesitation,  no  compromise; — only  an  air  of 
insolence  and  hatred  for  the  past,  effrontery  and  audac- 
ity for  the  present  and  a  blind  puerile  confidence  in  the 
future  which  was  to  be  theirs,  and  theirs  alone.  They 
had  a  singular  way  of  talking  about  society,  not  as  if 
it  were  an  aggregation  of  individuals  whose  separate 
destiny  is  due  to  a  countless  number  of  correlated  cir- 
cumstances, but  as  if  it  were  a  single  individual,  a  sort 
of  hideous,  immoral  monster,  deliberately  bent  on  re- 
ducing three-fourths  of  the  human  race  to  slavery  and 
wretchedness  to  serve  the  remaining  fourth.  They  had 
no  conception  of  the  fact  that  circumstances  have  no 
power  to  radically  change  human  nature ;  that  the  ut- 
most they  can  do  to  any  living  jcreature,  plant,  animal, 
or  man  is  to  determine  whether  or  not  each  is  to  reach 
the  highest  development  of  which  each  is  individually 
capable.  The  character  of  every  living  entity  is  deter- 
mined at  its  birth  by  natural  laws  to  which  we  have 
no  key.  Each  seed  in  plant-life  contains  the  germ  of 
what  it  can  become.  The  acorn  will  be  an  oak.  The 
dusty  powder  on  the  frond  of  a  fern  will  reproduce  its 
kind;  but  soil,  climate,  favorable  or  unfavorable  cir- 
cumstances, will  determine  whether  the  oak  will  tower 
up  towards  the  skies  and  spread  its  branches  widely, 
freely;  or  whether  it  will  remain  dwarfed  and  scanty- 
limbed;  and  whether  the  fern  is  to  rival  a  tree  in  size 
and  beauty,  or  to  tremble  in  the  winds,  six  inches  above 
the  ground.  So  it  is  with  the  moral  nature  of  man; 
no  circumstances  can  develop  in  him  that  which  is  not 
born  in  him.  The  wisdom  of  Socrates  could  not  make 
a  sage  of  Alcibiades,  nor  the  humane  philosophy  of 
Seneca  penetrate  the  brute  mind  of  Nero.  The  infa- 
mous Commodus  was  the  son  of  Marcus  Aurelius,  and 
Voltaire,  nursed  in  the  lap  of  the  Jesuits,  went  out  of 
their  schools  a  skeptic  to  make  the  world  laugh  with 
him  at  what  he  had  been  taught. 

But  these  young   reformers   were   of   quite   another 


A  WOMAN   IN   REVOLT  65 

opinion.  They  seemed  never  to  have  understood  that 
homely  adage  which  sums  up  the  common  experience 
of  mankind:  "You  can't  make  a  silk  purse  out  of  a 
sow's  ear."  They  were  quite  sure  you  could.  Only 
feed  and  clothe  your  brute  man  well,  and  you  will  make 
a  gentleman  of  him  equal  to  the  best  of  his  kind.  Alas ! 
they  forgot  that  when  they  harangued  against  the  rich 
and  the  noble  as  the  vile  oppressors  of  humanity,  they 
were  emphatically  proving  by  their  very  criticism  of 
them  the  impotency  of  rank  and  wealth,  food  and 
Clothes,  to  transform  men  into  sages  and  philanthropists. 

I  was  at  this  stage  of  my  mental  comments  on  what 
I  heard,  when  a  change  in  the  nature  of  the  discussion 
took  place.  I  had  noticed,  on  my  entrance,  that  there 
were  a  few  women  in  the  audience,  one  of  whom,  in 
particular,  was  the  object  of  general  attention;  and  if 
beauty,  youth,  and  that  indescribable  sparkle  of  physical 
health  can  deserve  it,  she  was  in  every  way  most  worthy 
to  receive  it.  On  the  question  of  woman's  place  in  the 
commonwealth,  she  rose  to  discuss  it. 

There  are  women  of  whom  we  seem  incapable  of 
asking  anything  more  than  what  they  so  richly  give  us 
in  their  intoxicating  beauty.  We  pardon  everything  to 
their  loveliness,  even  their  stupidity;  for  beauty  seems 
always  the  highest  manifestation  of  intelligence,  and 
its  silent  eloquence  speaks  more  effectually  than  any  lan- 
guage of  the  tongue.  But  this  woman  had  the  super- 
fluous gift  of  wit  and  intellect.  She  was  a  little  above 
the  ordinary  stature  of  her  sex,  perfectly  formed,  and 
walked  with  an  ease  and  dignity  remarkable  in  a  woman 
of  the  people.  She  had  an  abundance  of  dark  wavy 
hair,  a  face  rather  oval  than  round,  of  that  rich  pale 
Color  which  belongs  to  the  southern  type  of  beauty  and 
harmonizes  so  admirably  with  the  large  black  eyes  that 
accompany  it.  Her  eyes  were  peculiarly  fascinating; 
the  lids  drooped  a  little  at  the  outer  corners,  giving 
them  a  certain  appealing  expression,  as  if  they  said, 
"  Love  me — for  I  love  you," 


66          THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

She  advanced  to  the  front  of  the  hall,  but  did  not 
mount  the  platform,  although  urged  to  do  so,  saying 
in  a  rich,  full  voice: 

"  I  am  not  a  little  woman.  I  can  see  very  well  all 
the  heads  before  me,  and  I  am  sure  that  you  can  see 
me."  She  held  in  her  hand  a  book,  which  without  any 
explanation  or  comment,  she  opened  and  began  to  read 
aloud : 

"  The  affable  and  complaisant  man  who  deigned  to 
instruct  me,  continued  in  the  same  tone  of  frankness: 
'  You  know  that  women  have  no  other  dowry  than 
their  virtue  and  their  charms.  They  have  grown  inter- 
ested in  cultivating  their  moral  qualities,  so  by  this  legis- 
lative measure,  we  have  killed  the  hydra  of  coquetry, 
so  fertile  in  whims,  vices  and  follies.' 

" '  What !  no  dowry  ?  Women  have  nothing  of  their 
own,  and  who  can  marry  them?' 

" '  Women  have  no  dowry,  because  by  nature  they  are 
dependent  on  the  sex  that  makes  their  strength  and 
their  glory,  and  whom  nothing  ought  to  withdraw  from 
this  legitimate  empire  which  is  always  less  terrible  than 
the  yoke  which  they  give  to  themselves  in  their  fatal 
liberty.  You  no  longer  see  a  girl  proud  of  her  dowry 
seem  to  grant  a  favor  to  the  husband  whom  she  ac- 
cepts. Every  man  takes  care  of  the  woman  who  is 
the  mother  of  his  children,  and  she,  receiving  every- 
thing from  her  husband's  hand,  is  more  disposed  to 
fidelity  and  obedience:  the  law  being  universal,  no  one 
feels  the  weight  of  it.  All  women,  submissive  to  the 
duties  which  their  sex  impose  on  them,  feel  their  honor 
involved  in  following  these  austere  laws  which  alone 
can  insure  their  happiness.' " 

She  paused  here,  turned,  and  threw  the  book  on  the 
table  behind  her,  then  faced  the  audience  with  her  hands 
folded,  her  head  high,  and  a  look  of  such  scorn  on  her 
beautiful  face  that  she  seemed  a  wholly  different  woman. 
The  languishing  eyes  no  longer  said  "  I  love  you,"  but 
spoke  the  bitterest  language  of  contempt.  One  moment, 


A   WOMAN   IN   REVOLT  67 

there  was  perfect  silence,  then  the  hall  burst  into  ap- 
plause. I  leaned  forward,  my  heart  beating  fast,  my 
face  flushed;  the  woman  was  superb.  We  were  ap- 
plauding her  beauty,  we  had  forgotten  everything  else. 

She  shook  her  head,  held  up  her  hand  imperatively, 
and  we  were  silent  at  once. 

"  You  are  not  applauding  that  sentiment,"  she  said. 
"  You  are  applauding  what  you  know  to  be  my  utter 
contempt  for  it." 

We  applauded  her  again,  to  assure  her  that  she  was 
right.  I  recognized  the  extract  she  had  read.  It  was 
taken  from  Mercier's  "  Year  2440"  How  I  wished  for 
Lord  Eliot,  now! 

When  the  room  was  silent  once  more,  she  continued 
in  a  firm,  ringing  voice  that  compelled  attention: 

"  How  dare  any  man  accuse  Nature  of  his  own  mis- 
conduct, and  declare  that  hers  is  the  law  which  his  own 
brutal  selfishness  has  made!  Where,  in  all  the  brute 
kingdom,  and  man  is  but  a  higher  brute  who  has  for- 
gotten his  origin,  is  the  female  dependent  on  the  male? 
To  which,  on  the  contrary,  has  Nature  allotted  the  heav- 
iest burden  in  the  great  law  of  interdependence,  the  law 
of  life?  To  the  weakest,  you  think?  Nature  is  no 
blunderer.  She  never  gives  her  burdens  to  those  who 
cannot  carry  them.  She  never  intrusts  her  most  im- 
portant functions  to  weakness.  She  gives  them  to  the 
swift,  to  the  strong." 

Then  in  a  clear,  logical  way  she  made  her  plea  for 
the  recognition  of  the  absolute  equality  of  women  before 
the  law.  She  would  hear  of  no  compromise.  She 
swept  away  all  social  considerations  of  woman's  duties 
as  if  they  were  so  many  cobwebs  in  her  path.  Woman 
had  one  paramount  duty  just  now,  it  was  to  herself. 
Man's  superiority  as  a  social  creature  was  nothing  but 
a  superiority  in  crass  egotism,  in  brutal  audacity. 
Woman,  too,  must  dare  to  be  free;  she  bore  the  yokes 
of  two  degrading  servitudes,  marriage  and  public  opin- 
ion. She  must  break  these  yokes,  prefer  hardship  and 


68         THE  JOURNAL   OF  A  RECLUSE 

toil  to  them.  She  must  prefer  the  truth,  naked,  ugly 
though  it  be  to  the  prettiest  lie.  She  must  make  war 
to  the  death  on  the  illusions  that  ensnare  and  enslave 
her ;  and  the  most  fatal  of  all  illusions  to  her  is  the  illu- 
sion of  love.  Parodying  Mme.  Roland's  apostrophe  to 
liberty,  she  exclaimed :  "  O  Love,  how  many  crimes  and 
vile  abominations  have  been  committed  in  thy  name! 
Woman  in  her  folly  has  made  a  religion  of  it;  she  has 
called  it  sacred,  holy,  the  supreme  joy  of  life.  She  has 
centered  all  her  hopes  and  aims  on  it,  and,  shipwrecked 
ninety-nine  times  out  of  a  hundred,  sits  helpless  among 
her  ruins  praying  for  death.  Cowards!  cowards!  Up! 
up! — dare  to  live!  If  love  were  anything  but  a  tran- 
sient illusion,  one  might  make  a  religion  of  it,  but  to  go 
from  woman  to  woman  and  man  to  man,  as  from 
feast  to  feast,  in  order  to  give  oneself  a  state  of  delir- 
ium, or  intoxication,  is  the  height  of  folly  and  crime. 
Nature  never  designed  a  life  of  activity  for  man  and 
of  dreaming  passivity  for  woman;  at  bottom,  men  and 
women  have  the  same  desire  for  freedom  of  choice  and 
action,  the  same  delight  in  the  full  expansion  and  play 
of  the  mind,  and  the  same  constitutional  tastes  and  im- 
pulses. It  is  not  Nature  but  artificial  custom  which  has 
excluded  woman  from  any  world  but  that  of  the  emo- 
tions. This  exclusion,  this  restriction  of  action,  lies  at 
the  bottom  of  shipwrecked  marriages,  morbid  and  hys- 
terical moods,  and  all  the  social  tragedies  in  which 
woman  appears  as  a  factor.  Let  women  have  courage 
to  destroy  this  poison  of  love  so  sweet  to  taste,  so  bitter 
to  drink.  You  are  loved  to-day,  flattered  to  the  skies. 
Who  can  venture  to  say  that  you  will  not  be  hated  to- 
morrow? And  motherhood?  Yes,  that  you  shall  re- 
spect, when  it  is  desired.  But  give  no  fine  names  to 
what  is  involuntary.  Don't  make  a  god  of  your  appe- 
tites, and  adorning  them  with  tinsel  and  lace,  fall  down 
and  worship  them.  You  need  not  despise  them  either. 
Accept  them  as  you  accept  the  law  of  falling  bodies — 
govern  them,  don't  be  governed  by  them.  Slavery  is 


A  WOMAN   IN   REVOLT  69 

slavery,  no  matter  who  the  master  be,  and  of  all  forms 
of  slavery  that  is  the  most  degrading  which  subjects 
the  intellect  to  appetite." 

In  this  new  country  and  in  this  day  of  free  thinking, 
that  all  sounds  very  familiar  as  I  write  it  down ;  but 
when  I  listened  that  night,  much  of  what  this  beautiful 
woman  in  revolt  against  society,  had  to  say,  came  to 
me  with  the  force  of  novelty.  Young,  innocent,  inex- 
perienced, woman  for  me  was  the  mystery  of  mysteries, 
something  sacred,  lifted  away  above  me,  and  I  was 
shocked  and  hurt  at  the  rending  of  that  beautiful  veil 
through  which  youth  looks  at  love.  Besides,  to  tell  the 
truth,  all  this  complaint  of  man  on  the  part  of  a  woman 
so  beautiful  as  she,  seemed  singularly  absurd,  when 
she  must  have  known  that  if  she  set  her  heart  upon 
anything,  there  wasn't  a  man  among  us  who  wouldn't 
have  yielded  to  her  will;  and  we  were  not  different 
from  other  men.  In  our  place  they  would  have  done 
as  we  did.  She  swayed  us  as  she  pleased,  and  with- 
out believing  a  word  of  what  she  said,  we  were  ready 
to  swear  on  our  honor  that  she  was  right.  Women 
tyrannized  by  men?  It  seemed  to  me  that,  never  in 
my  life,  had  I  so  plainly  seen  how  a  woman  can  hold 
a  man  soul  and  body,  slave  to  her  caprice;  never  be- 
fore felt  so  powerfully  the  mysterious,  irresistible  at- 
traction of  feminine  beauty.  When  my  new  acquaint- 
ance introduced  me  to  her  as  his  cousin,  at  the  [close  of 
the  assembly,  I  stammered  my  compliments  like  a  bash- 
ful schoolboy.  And  yet  she  did  not  in  any  way  reach 
my  ideal  of  womanhood  incarnated  in  Lady  Margaret; 
she  did  not,  in  the  least,  blur  for  me  the  sweet  face  that 
I  revered;  but  she  touched  me;  she  made  me  restless; 
she  made  me  unhappy;  she  made  me  feel  myself  a  raw 
boy  who  had  dreamed  and  not  lived  as  yet;  she  set  me 
to  wishing,  to  hoping,  and  so  far  from  discouraging 
me  by  her  denunciation  of  love,  she  made  me  feel  that 
it  was  the  one  thing  in  life  worth  while. 

Of  course,  I  lost  no  time  in  relating  my  experience 


70          THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

to  Lord  Eliot,  and  he  immediately  expressed  a  wish  to 
meet  these  two  cousins.  I  communicated  his  desire  to 
my  new  acquaintance,  who  felt  very  much  flattered,  and 
a  day  was  set  for  the  introduction.  It  turned  out  to 
be  a  cold,  gloomy  December  day,  the  air  dark  with  the 
crossing  of  snow-flakes,  the  wind  blowing  sharply  and 
howling  down  the  chimney  like  a  wild  beast.  We  had 
a  roaring  fire  in  the  drawing-room,  and  were  sitting 
near  it  when  the  visitors  were  announced. 

In   speaking  of   Mile   C to  Lord   Eliot,   I   had 

not  dwelt  on  her  beauty,  but  had  contented  myself  with 
saying  that  she  was  fine-looking.  But  this  day  she 
was  magnificent.  The  sharp  air  had  brought  a  vivid 
color  to  her  cheeks,  and  her  beautiful  black  eyes  spar- 
kled with  health  and  vigor.  She  brought  with  her  the 
fresh  pure  air  of  out  of  doors  to  revive  the  heavy  air 
of  the  house.  We  had  not  spoken  for  some  time  be- 
fore her  entrance,  and  Lord  Eliot,  sunk  in  a  profound 
reverie,  had  not  lifted  his  eyes  until  her  arrival.  I 
shall  never  forget  the  sudden  change  in  his  face  when 
his  eyes  first  met  hers.  He  paled,  he  reddened,  and 
passed  his  hands  over  his  face  as  if  to  conceal  his 
change  of  color — then  he  looked  at  her  again  and 
smiled.  In  recalling  the  scene,  I  have  often  thought 
that  their  meeting  resembled  that  of  two  souls  that 
belonged  to  each  other  who  were  seeing  each  other 
again  for  the  first  time,  after  many  days.  All  the  viril- 
ity of  this  feeble  and  delicate  body  seemed  to  say,  "  This 
is  what  I  need.  Here  is  the  health  that  will  share  its 
superabundance  with  me.  Here  is  the  beauty  that  will 
delight  me  every  day,  anew.  Here  is  that  warm  femi- 
nine sympathy  that  will  lessen  my  pain  in  sharing  it;" 
for  my  astonished  and  observant  eyes  had  remarked  a 
change  almost  as  great  in  the  young  woman's  face. 
The  air  of  cold  indifference  which  she  had  shown  to- 
wards her  companions  on  the  memorable  night  in  which 
I  had  first  seen  her,  was  replaced  by  a  manner  full  of 
gentleness  and  solicitude.  She  approached  him  as  a 


A  WOMAN   IN   REVOLT  71 

mother  approaches  a  beloved  child ;  for  there  is  in  the 
love  of  a  woman,  when  it  is  profound  and  durable,  a 
mysterious  element  of  maternity;  she  wishes  to  caress 
and  to  care  for  him  whom  she  loves,  she  would  spare 
him  the  lightest  grief;  but  alas!  this  love  so  perfect,  so 
disinterested,  lacks  what  to  so  many  men  is,  in  the 
long  run,  the  charm  of  love — the  piquant  spur  of  haz- 
ard, of  doubt.  Most  men  will  love  long,  only  what  they 
fear  to  lose;  and  jealousy,  doubt,  nay,  at  times,  de- 
spair are  the  food  of  their  affection. 

Do  I  speak  too  soon  of  love  between  these  two  who 
had  never  before  met  ?  No ;  there  is  a  love  born  of  the 
first  chance  meeting  of  the  eyes.  Ask  the  reason  of  it, 
it  can  only  reply,  by  saying  like  Montaigne: 

"  Si  on  me  presse  de  dire  pourquoi  je  I'aimais,  je  sens 
que  cela  ne  se  peut  exprimer  qu'en  repondant,  parce 
que  c'etait  lui;  parce  que  c'etait  moi." 

These  two  couldn't  have  answered  otherwise  than 
that :  "  Because  it  was  he,  because  it  was  I." 

There  was  in  both  of  them  the  same  capacity  for 
generous  enthusiasm,  the  same  courage,  and  if  it  were 
necessary,  the  same  audacity,  the  same  strength  of  will, 
the  same  intensity  of  feeling.  For  I  had  not  been  mis- 
led by  the  bitterness  with  which  she  spoke  of  love;  for 
just  as  cynicism  is  often  the  outcome  of  the  most  un- 
bounded confidence  in  humanity,  after  that  confidence 
has  been  deceived  and  betrayed,  so  a  woman's  rejection 
of  love  as  a  necessary  element  of  her  happiness,  is  the 
result  of  some  bitterness  in  her  experience  that  has  left 
her  wounded  for  having  too  much  leaned  on  that  frail 
support.  But  no  one,  not  even  the  cynic,  is  always 
proof  against  a  return  of  confidence  and  affection. 
This  woman  stood  before  Lord  Eliot,  now,  devouring 
with  her  eyes  his  magnificent  head;  and  he  was  just 
as  much  absorbed  in  her.  For  neither  of  them  did 
there  exist  another  person  in  the  world,  at  that  mo- 
ment. He  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"You  are  very  courageous  to  brave  the  storm,"  he 


72         THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

said,  extending  his  hand,  something  which  he  very 
rarely  did.  "  Sit  down  near  the  fire ;  you  must  be  cold." 

"  Not  at  all,"  she  answered,  and  her  sonorous  mu- 
sical voice  seemed  to  fill  the  room  with  something  very 
fresh  and  sound.  "  Not  at  all.  I  like  the  cold,  I  like 
a  storm,  I  like  anything  that  calls  out  strength  and 
resistance  in  me.  It  makes  me  feel  alive." 

She  reddened,  as  if  involuntarily  she  might  have 
made  him  feel  the  weakness  of  his  body  in  contrast  with 
the  vigor  of  her  own,  and  added,  "  I  am  very  sure  that 
you  understand  me." 

"  Yes,  I  do ;  and  I  can  understand  also  how  you  can 
often  be  in  revolt  against  the  laws  of  society." 

"  Yes,  my  lord,"  she  answered  gently,  "  against  the 
laws  of  society,  never  against  the  laws  of  nature.  I 
am  not  so  stupid  as  to  suppose  that  by  willing  we  can 
alter  one  of  them;  therefore,  nothing  is  left  but  to 
submit." 

"  But  are  we  living  now  in  a  state  of  nature?" 

"  We  are  millions  of  miles  from  it." 

"And  you  would  like  to  return  to  it?" 

"  If  you  mean  by  a  state  of  nature  a  state  of  sav- 
agery, I  answer  *  no,'  of  course ;  but  if  you  mean  a  con- 
dition in  which  the  laws  of  society  are  in  harmony  with 
the  laws  of  nature — then,  '  yes '  emphatically." 

"  And  do  you  find  that  history  has  ever  left  us  an 
account  of  such  a  condition  among  men  ?  " 

"No,  my  lord,  that  remains  to  be  experienced;  and 
to  hasten  its  approach  is  the  duty  of  the  present  and 
near  future." 

"And  you  believe  in  the  realization  of  it  in  a  re- 
mote future  ?  " 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  really  can't  exactly  tell,  Mademoiselle.  I  know 
nothing  of  the  world,  and  I  am  just  nineteen.  That  is 
the  age  of  illusions,  they  tell  us.  But  fate  has  nailed 
me  to  a  chair.  That  has  given  me  time  to  reflect,  that 
has  aged  me;  and  when  you  reply  with  such  sunny 
confidence,  I  seem  to  myself  to  be  a  hundred  years  old, 


A  WOMAN   IN   REVOLT  73 

and,  pardon  me,  Mademoiselle,  I  always  speak  with 
abominable  frankness  to  those  whom  I  like — you  seem 
to  me  to  be  nineteen." 

I  wish  I  could  put  into  these  words,  as  I  write  them, 
the  inexpressible  sweetness  of  his  voice,  shaded  with  a 
little  teasing  note  of  irony,  and  the  striking  beauty  of 
his  manly  face  softened  by  something  tender  and  full 
of  gaiety  that  shone  out  of  his  dark  eyes.  How  proud 
I  was  of  him!  How  I  loved  him!  O  my  master!  my 
friend ! 

She  laughed,  thrust  her  hand  through  the  soft  masses 
of  b«r  hair,  shaking  her  head  with  a  little  gesture  of 
disagreement. 

"  My  lord,  as  a  woman,  I  ought  to  be  flattered  to  be 
taken  for  nineteen  at  twenty-eight,  but  I  am  not;  and, 
pardon  me,  it  is  you  who  are  young,  very  young;  and 
I  who  am  old,  old,  old  as  the  wrongs  that  oppress  us. 
Listen  seriously,  I  beg  of  you.  There  are  a  thousand 
things  we  women  wish  for,  because  our  lives  are  arti- 
ficial: there  is  only  one  thing  we  need,  and  that  is  lib- 
erty— the  breath  of  life,  a  free  space  in  which  the  mind 
can  develop  without  being  stunted.  The  past  envelops 
us  like  a  shroud,  and  we  stifle  in  it.  We  must  think 
over  again  its  thoughts,  repeat  its  actions,  its  words. 
If  we  dare  change  our  opinions  ever  so  little,  persecu- 
tion commences,  if  not  with  open  violence,  then  with 
covert  sneer;  and  it  falls  the  heaviest  on  the  weakest 
socially,  the  women  and  the  poor." 

Her  eyes  shone,  her  cheeks  glowed. 

"  For  us  women  in  particular  there  is  a  great  specter 
set  up  before  our  eyes  as  you  set  up  a  scarecrow  in  a 
wheat  field.  Do  you  know  what  it  is?  It  is  the  wom- 
anly woman!"  What  an  accent  of  contempt  in  these 
last  words!  What  a  superb  expression  of  disdain  in 
her  beautiful  features !  "  And  do  you  know  what  that 
means?  It  means  that  she  is  to  be  the  slave  of  man, 
or  else  the  pretty  plaything  of  his  leisure,  whom  he 
will  love  passionately  one  day  and  tire  of,  perhaps 
loathe,  the  day  following." 


74          THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

"  Pardon  me,  Mademoiselle,"  said  my  young  lord 
quickly,  "  of  all  women  whom  I  have  ever  met,  you 
have  the  least  right  to  complain  of  slavery,  you  who 
could  enslave  when  you  liked " 

She  tossed  back  her  head  with  a  proud  air. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  I  am  beautiful  ?  O  yes.  I  have 
been  called  beautiful — you  said  a  moment  ago  that  you 
spoke  frankly  to  those  whom  you  like.  I,  too,  speak 
frankly,  not  only  to  those  whom  I  like,  but  to  every- 
one, when  it  is  necessary.  I  know  that  I  can  easily 
make  myself  loved,  as  you  call  it;  but  is  it  /  that  am 
loved,  or  my  dark  hair,  my  complexion,  and  the  con- 
tour of  my  face?  If  the  small-pox  were  to  blur  my 
features  and  dim  my  eyes,  do  you  think  I  should  be 
loved?  When  old  age  withers  me,  do  you  think  I  shall 
be  respected?  Do  you  think  that  I  shall  count  for 
anything  but  a  supernumerary  in  this  Christian  land 
that  doesn't  strangle  its  girls  at  birth,  but  lets  them 
grow  up  with  the  boys?  Love!  Men  do  not  know  the 
meaning  of  the  word.  Woman  has  no  meaning  to  them 
except  as  a  beautiful  body.  What  do  they  care  for 
the  soul  of  her — except  as  it  is  willing  to  take  all  its 
color  from  them?  But  don't  you  know  that  a  love 
which  does  not  root  itself  below  surfaces  cannot  live, 
and  that  viewed  in  this  way  we  are  destined  always  to 
be  at  the  mercy  of  your  caprice  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,  but  aren't  you  attempting 
here  to  change  a  law  of  nature  that  in  the  long  run 
you  will  be  forced  to  submit  to?  We  are  born  to  love 
beauty  just  as  we  are  born  to  breathe  the  air.  And 
perhaps  under  that  instinct  lies  a  fine  principle  of  race 
preservation  and  progress — who  knows  ?  The  soul  can't 
show  itself  on  the  surface,  and  often  it  wouldn't  if  it 
could.  Haven't  you  feelings  and  thoughts  so  intimate, 
so  peculiarly  personal  that  to  speak  of  them  would  be 
to  profane  them?  There  is  a  modesty  of  the  soul  as 
sensitive,  as  tremulous,  as  that  of  the  body." 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you  in  that,  my  lord ;  and  it  may 


A   WOMAN    IN    REVOLT  75 

be  that  I  am  quarreling  with  a  law  of  nature  and  that 
it  is  impossible  for  men  to  regard  us  in  any  other  light 
than  that  of  their  chief  source  of  pleasure;  but  still,  I 
think  I  may  legitimately  complain  that  you  persistently 
shut  us  out  from  the  sphere  of  your  intellectual  con- 
quests, and  condemn  us  to  ignorance,  preferring  a  thou- 
sand times  that  we  should  be  imbeciles,  but  coquettish 
and  frivolous,  rather  than  real  companions,  capable  of 
walking  side  by  side  with  you.  I  am  fair  enough,  too, 
to  confess  that  a  great  many  women,  the  majority  it 
may  be,  are  too  often  quite  content  with  their  kingdom 
of  the  flesh  and  try  to  strengthen  it  with  all  the  artifice 
in  their  power.  But  if  you  were  to  demand  of  them 
solider  attractions  than  these  frail  charms,  they  would 
answer  by  giving  you  what  you  asked,  and  so  become 
infinitely  more  useful  to  the  race.  You  make  us  feeble, 
egotistic,  base  with  all  the  meanness  of  jealousy,  envy, 
and  deceit.  You  take  away  all  legitimate  power  from 
us,  in  denying1  us  the  rights  of  citizenship;  and  you 
force  us  to  use  craft  and  cunning  in  their  place.  A 
man,  all  his  life  long,  may  count  on  your  respect  and 
affection.  A  woman  ceases  to  exist  for  you  after  forty. 
Give  us  also  the  life  of  intelligence — grant  us  the  dig- 
nity of  meaning  something  to  the  government  at  any 
age  after  the  dawn  of  reason.  Respect  our  old  age. 
Don't  force  us  to  risk  all  our  happiness  and  dignity  on 
the  frail  bark  of  love  where  shipwreck  is  inevitable; 
and  do  not  despise  us,  if  fate  should  deny  us  even  the 
chance  at  shipwreck  which  you  make  the  supreme  end 
of  a  woman's  existence.  You  have  covered  the  name 
of  old  maid  with  ridicule  and  contempt,  and  thus  forced 
thousands  of  women  to  sell  themselves  to  escape  it,  be- 
cause they  hadn't  the  courage  to  face  an  honorable  life 
alone.  Forgive  me,  I  see  that  I  have  shocked  you.  I 
have  talked  too  much,  but  I  feel  too  keenly  on  this  sub- 
ject to  speak  with  indifference  or  with  brevity." 

My  lord,  in  listening  to  her,  had  changed  color  more 
than  once,  and  an  expression  of  real  pain  lay  on  his 


76         THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

face  at  the  close  of  her  speech.  He  passed  his  white 
hand  over  his  face  a  moment,  then  lifting  his  eyes  and 
looking  at  her  with  a  smile  almost  apologetic,  he  said: 

"  You  may  have  reason  to  say  what  you  do.  I  have 
never  thought  of  these  things.  For  me,  woman  has 
been  my  mother  and  my  sister;  that  is  to  say,  love  and 
devotion  incarnate,  the  sun  and  the  dew  of  my  life. 
Woman,  otherwise,  fate  forbids  me  to  think  of.  If  I 
have  sometimes  vaguely  dreamed  of  that  love  of  which 
the  poets  speak,  it  has  been  as  if  I  had  dreamed  of 
the  stars;  and  my  eyes,  dazzled  and  blinded  for  a  mo- 
ment, have  quickly  come  back  to  earth  again,  where  I 
am  destined  to  crawl  painfully  all  my  life.  But " — his 
voice,  low  and  hesitating  until  now,  suddenly  grew 
stronger,  and  a  sparkle  of  magnificent  audacity  bright- 
ened his  eyes  as  he  went  on — "  I  must  tell  you  fear- 
lessly that  if  fate  had  been  kind  to  me  and  had  given 
me  the  health  and  strength  that  ought  to  have  been 
my  birthright,  I  should  have  loved  like  a  man,  and  not 
like  a  schoolmaster; — that  is  to  say,  I  should  have  felt 
powerfully  that  irresistible  unstable  attraction  of  beauty 
you  contemn.  I  should  have  quitted  Minerva  for  Venus. 
And  don't  you  see  why?  We  need  to  be  awakened  out 
of  stagnation  from  time  to  time  by  a  sudden  shock 
that  sets  all  the  chords  of  our  being  to  vibrating  again; 
we  need  new  sources  of  sensation,  new  horizons  of 
thought;  and  beauty  often  awakens  us  to  life  again,  as 
not  even  wisdom  herself  [can  do.  I  can  understand, 
now,  how  a  man  might  say  to  some  woman  whose 
beauty  was  to  him  like  a  revelation :  '  I  never  lived  but 
half  until  I  saw  you :  you  have  given  me  eyes  and  ears 
and  a  tongue  to  express  the  perfect  sweetness  of  life 
in  your  presence.  What  more  do  I  need  now  that  I 
love  you  ? '  Didn't  Dante  feel  a  vita  nuova  after  his 
first  meeting  with  Beatrice?" 

He  leaned  forward  towards  her,  his  face  glowing  as 
I  had  never  seen  it;  she  drew  back  a  little,  and  I  saw 
her  eyes  grow  moist  as  she  said  with  a  little  catch  in 


A  WOMAN   IN   REVOLT  77 

her  voice  and  an  accent  of  maternal  sweetness  that  made 
her  adorable: 

"  Ah,  you  are  young,  and  I  do  not  wish  you  to  think 
that  I  never  knew  the  illusions  that  belong  to  youth, 
and  so  I  am  going  to  tell  you  that  if  ever  I  had  re- 
ceived from  any  man  the  proof  of  a  sincere  and  inti- 
mate sympathy  with  what  is  best  in  me,  I  shouldn't 
have  become  the  declamatory  public  woman  you  have 
just  listened  to.  I,  too,  might  have  been  the  sun  and 
dew  in  the  life  of  another,  as  you  so  prettily  express 
it,  if — but  O,  what  folly  to  talk  like  this!  You  make 

me  weak;  or  rather  you  show  me  how  weak  I  am " 

She  rose  from  her  chair  and  began  to  adjust  her  cloak 
about  her  shoulders.  He  extended  his  hand  eagerly 
towards  her,  saying: 

"  Don't  go  yet,  I  beg  of  you.  I  still  have  something 
to  say  to  you,  if  you  can  spare  me  the  time.  Am  I 
keeping  you  from  any  duty  ?  " 

"  No,  my  lord,  my  time  is  yours.  If  you  have  any- 
thing to  say  to  me,  I  shall  gladly  listen." 

She  resumed  her  seat,  flinging  her  cloak  from  her 
shoulders,  and  looked  at  him  expectantly.  He  hesi- 
tated a  moment,  as  if  he  were  searching  for  some  pre- 
text to  keep  her  longer.  Finally,  he  took  up  the  con- 
versation impersonally,  by  remarking: 

"  You  have  given  me  some  new  ideas,  and  I  shall 
need  some  time  to  think  them  over.  I  should  like  to 
ask  you  what  remedy  you  propose  for  these  evils  of 
which  you  speak.  You  have  already  said  that  you  did 
not  hope  to  change  nature." 

"  No,  my  lord,  but  we  hope  to  change  the  attitude 
of  woman  herself  with  regard  to  the  opinions  of  which 
she  is  the  victim.  We  hope  to  teach  her  to  respect 
herself,  even  when  she  has  forfeited  the  respect  of  so- 
ciety. Women  of  genius  have  always  done  it.  Why 
should  there  be  one  law  for  them,  and  another  for 
women  who  have  no  eloquence  but  that  of  the  heart? 
We  hope  to  give  her  courage.  That  is  what  she  lacks. 


78          THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

She  is  the  slave  of  fashion,  the  slave  of  superstition, 
the  slave  of  illusions  with  regard  to  love;  and  for  that 
reason  she  lives  in  a  state  of  cowardly  fear — and  the 
most  ignoble  kind  of  fear,  fear  to  lose  her  fair  skin 
and  the  gloss  of  her  hair.  Look  at  the  so-called  woman's 
page  in  our  periodicals  and  see  what  is  the  chief  occu- 
pation of  their  thoughts ; — the  cut  of  their  clothes,  com- 
plexion washes  and  hair  dyes,  and  the  petty  regulations 
of  artificial  society.  There  are  times  when  I  am 
ashamed  to  be  a  woman  because  of  this  seemingly  hope- 
less childishness  and  silliness.  But  do  you  think  that 
we  are  naturally  absolutely  devoid  of  good  sense  and 
intelligence?  I  do  not  believe  it.  Why,  then,  do  we 
seem  to  have  lost  it  all?  Simply  because  we  have  been 
crowded  out  of  all  the  work  of  society,  and  relegated 
to  one  task  alone,  that  of  pleasing  you  men,  and  thus 
securing  the  privilege  of  being  taken  care  of,  dressed, 
clothed,  and  flattered  by  you." 

"  Then  you  would  like  to  see  women  admitted  to  all 
the  professions,  enter  the  business  world  and  share  with 
man  all  the  labor  that  belongs  to  social  organization — 
build  houses,  clear  forests,  pave  roads,  and  sit  in  the 
Councils  of  the  government?" 

"  Yes,  my  lord." 

"  Mademoiselle,  we  have  in  our  language  the  beau- 
tiful word  'home.'  That  means  a  ' chez  vous'  a  little 
personal  retreat  where  a  man,  a  woman,  and  their 
children  make  a  little  kingdom  all  their  own.  In  this 
kingdom,  each  individual  can  exercise  his  peculiar 
tastes;  and  here  the  woman  is  the  pivot  around  which 
everything  turns.  While  the  man  works  outside  to 
keep  up  this  kingdom,  she  has  the  leisure  to  adorn 
herself  with  all  the  ornaments  of  the  mind,  if  she  wishes 
to.  She  can  become  for  him  the  measure  of  taste,  an 
inspiration  towards  the  ideal.  Isn't  that  a  role  in  civi- 
lization as  important  as  any  that  he  plays?  Tell  me 
frankly,  do  you  mean  to  substitute  for  this  home  those 
soulless  colossal  boarding-houses,  or  phalansteres,  as 


A   WOMAN   IN   REVOLT  79 

Fourier  calls  them?  I  would  rather  be  brought  up 
in  a  foundling  asylum.  Nay,  look  here;  a  thought  has 
just  occurred  to  me.  In  the  progress  of  humanitarian- 
ism — there  will  come  a  time  when  men  will  feel  that 
these  big  asylums  are  too  spacious  to  lodge  children  in, 
that  they  shrink  and  shiver  there  in  the  most  pitiful  of 
all  isolations,  the  isolation  of  a  crowd;  and  that  to  be 
properly  brought  up,  they  should  be  divided  into  little 
families,  housed  under  separate  roofs.  And  they  will 
be  so  housed.  Progress  does  not  lie  in  the  direction 
of  communism;  that  lies  behind  us.  We  have  passed 
out  of  it  into  individualism.  The  home,  the  sweetness 
of  family  life  is  the  chief  mark  of  a  higher  civilization." 

"  My  lord,  you  are  looking  at  life  through  some  very 
pretty  illusions.  You  are  discussing  dreams,  not  real- 
ities. Marriage  ought  to  be  what  you  think  it  is,  but 
it  is  not;  unfortunately  it  is  anything  but  the  happy 
state  of  perpetual  inspiration  that  you  depict.  It  is 
oftener  an  unspeakable  wretchedness,  when  it  is  not  an 
unspeakable  vileness.  But  as  long  as  there  is  youth 
and  warm  blood,  there  will  be  marriages;  as  to  just 
what  form  they  will  take,  I  am  not  prepared  to  say. 
But  what  I  am  prepared  particularly  to  say  is  this,  that 
no  marriage  bond  ought  to  exist  which  gives  all  the 
advantages  to  a  man.  A  woman  ought  not  to  be  com- 
pelled by  circumstances,  as  she  is  at  present,  to  con- 
tinue an  unholy  relation  because  she  can  find  no  pro- 
tection outside  of  it.  She  should  not  be  compelled  to 
perpetuate  a  mistake  once  made.  Life  is  growth.  It 
is  not  the  sinking  inevitably  into  error  and  dying  in  it. 
The  poor,  also,  ought  not  to  be  condemned  as  they  are 
to  the  ceaseless  gloom  of  poverty.  The  pride  and  ava- 
rice of  man  have  divided  society  into  two  great  classes, 
the  rich  and  the  poor.  To  the  one  all  the  pleasure,  the 
glory  of  civilization;  to  the  other,  all  the  toil  and  dark- 
ness." 

"  Excuse  me,  Mademoiselle ;  a  few  moments  ago  you 
were  complaining  that  men  had  appropriated  all  the 


8o          THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

tasks  of  civilization,  leaving  to  women  the  degradation 
of  leisure ;  for  leisure  seemed  to  you  to  amount  to  that, 
and  you  spoke  of  labor  as  a  privilege  which  resulted  in 
the  superior  education  and  position  of  men.  But  just 
now,  in  speaking  of  class-division,  you  seem  to  regard 
labor  as  a  badge  and  instrument  of  inferiority,  and  you 
make  idleness  a  desirable  condition.  I  have  not  prop- 
erly understood  you,  I  am  sure,  and  you  can  explain 
away  this  apparent  contradiction." 

"  Yes,  my  lord,"  she  answered  tranquilly,  "  you  have 
not  properly  understood  me;  or,  rather,  I  have  ex- 
pressed myself  badly.  I  do  not  at  all  mean  to  say  that 
idleness  is  an  advantage,  a  condition  of  superiority.  On 
the  contrary,  it  is  the  very  essence  of  vice  and  degen- 
eracy. Can  the  absence  of  responsibility  and  the  cease- 
less search  for  pleasure  ennoble  anyone  ?  Can  you  make 
a  day  holy  by  doing  nothing  in  it?  But  on  the  other 
hand,  if  the  whole  life  is  nothing  else  but  an  anxious 
effort  to  supply  the  needs  of  the  body,  food,  clothes, 
shelter — the  man  is  brutalized"  by  labor.  Now  society 
ought  not  to  condemn  a  soul  to  perish  of  idleness,  on 
the  one  hand,  or  to  die  crushed  under  the  weight  of 
toil.  The  soil,  like  light  and  air,  belong  to  us  all  alike. 
It  is  the  common  source  of  independence;  and  selfishly 
to  take  possession  of  it  to  the  exclusion  of  others  who 
have  as  much  right  to  it,  is  the  first  of  social  crimes." 

"  I  have  no  doubt,  Mademoiselle,  that  what  we  call 
social  progress  is  founded  upon  an  immense  amount 
of  brutal  selfishness,  and  that  we  all  ought  to  try  to 
reduce  it  to  its  minimum.  But  I  do  not  believe  that 
it  can  ever  be  wholly  eliminated,  or  that  we  shall  ever 
reach  a  condition  of  social  equality  which  will  wipe  out 
poverty  and  suffering.  Such  a  belief  seems  to  me  to  be 
founded  upon  two  capital  errors;  first,  that  we  are  all 
born  equal,  and,  second,  that  conditions  determine  char- 
acter. As  to  the  first,  suppose  we  were  all  to  be  farmers 
on  a  small  scale,  as  you  suggest,  do  you  think  that  I 
could  make  so  much  as  a  spear  of  grass  grow?  And 


A   WOMAN   IN   REVOLT  81 

I  am  not  the  only  one  whom  nature  has  condemned  to 
inferiority,  as  witness  our  asylums  and  hospitals.  I 
could  find  it  in  my  heart  to  curse  her  for  not  giving 
me  a  beautiful  body  full  of  health  and  vigor  like  yours. 
But  a  quoi  bonf  All  my  efforts,  all  my  prayers  could 
not  help  me  to  drag  myself  to  the  window,  yonder. 
And  as  for  conditions:  if  you  were  to  make  me  king 
of  France,  I  couldn't  even  mount  my  throne  unaided. 
But  grant,  even,  that  this  dream  of  social  equality  and 
perpetual  sunshine  were  practicable,  I  am  afraid  we 
should  all  say  with  Voltaire :  '  C'est  une  belle  chose  que 
la  tranquilite.  Oui,  mais  I' ennui  est  de  sa  connaissance 
et  de  sa  famille.'  What  a  frightful  monotony,  if  we  all 
thought  exactly  alike,  and  all  did  the  same  things !  Bah ! 
we  should  be  reduced  to  sleep  and  silence  for  want  of 
a  living  interest.  The  oak  is  a  noble  tree,  I  like  it 
better  than  all  the  others;  but  I  shouldn't  like  it  to  be 
the  only  tree.  I  couldn't  give  up  my  willows  and  elms 
and  beeches  and  pines  and  all  the  others.  They  give  to 
a  landscape  that  pretty  variety  which  makes  the  charm 
of  it.  The  sunlight  is  beautiful,  but  we  seek  the  shade 
with  gratitude  at  times,  and  are  thankful  for  the  cool- 
ness and  darkness  of  night.  Virtue  would  not  shine  so 
brightly  if  not  contrasted  with  vice.  Perfect  virtue 
everywhere  would  mean  stagnation.  Perfect  happiness 
is  an  empty  dream." 

"  And  yet,  my  lord,  you  do  not  hesitate  to  dream  it 
for  another  life  if  not  this  one,  and  call  it  heaven." 

"  Excuse  me,  Mademoiselle,"  he  replied  with  a  mis- 
chievous smile.  "  I  do  not  dream  that  way,  either. 
That  is  the  dream  of  apathetic  souls.  My  paradise 
would  be  action,  action,  difficulties  to  conquer — stum- 
bling, falling  and  rising  again,  but  ever  onward,  on- 
ward ! " 

"  How  easy  it  must  be  to  talk  like  that  with  no  diffi- 
culties to  conquer,  with  the  future  assured !  Do  you 
think  then  that  physical  pain  is  necessary  to  the  enjoy- 
ment of  perfect  health  ?  " 


82          THE   JOURNAL   OF   A   RECLUSE 

"  I  cannot  tell,  "Mademoiselle.  I  have  never  known 
perfect  health.  I  have  only  suffered." 

"  And  I,  too,  my  lord.  I  have  never  seen  life  on  its 
beautiful  side.  I  know  it  on  all  sides  but  that — the  side 
of  toil  and  difficulty  and  want — and  so  I  dream  of  that 
other  side  which  I  do  not  know;  I  dream  of  its  being 
realized  here  on  earth,  and  I  do  not  think  I  am  apa- 
thetic either." 

"  That  is  to  say,  we  finish  our  argument  as  we  began 
it,  each  holding  his  own  opinion  still.  But  really  you 
have  given  me  something  to  think  about." 

"  And  you  also  have  set  me  to  thinking,  and  I  hope, 

I  hope "  She  rose  again,  hesitating,  reaching  for 

her  cloak  and  blushing  like  a  young  girl. 

"  That  we  shall  meet  again  ? "  he  said,  holding  out 
his  hand.  "Ah,  that  would  give  me  such  great  pleas- 
ure." 


CHAPTER   IX 

THE    OLD,    OLD    PATHWAY,    JUST    WIDE    ENOUGH    FOR    TWO 

THEY  met  again  a  great  many  times;  but  singularly 
enough,  he  rarely  if  ever  talked  to  me  about  her,  and 
I  understood  his  reticence  perfectly.  Is  it  possible  to 
speak  of  one  whom  we  deeply  love  in  the  first  days  of 
that  sweet  intoxication  which  creates  the  world  anew 
for  us?  Such  a  love  seems  to  be  profaned  the  hour 
in  which  we  can  speak  of  it,  even  to  the  loved  ones. 
During  these  first  months  of  their  friendship,  there  was 
something  like  ecstasy  in  his  entire  mien,  a  smile  singu- 
larly beautiful,  an  inexplicable  lighting  up  of  the  whole 
face,  an  unaccustomed  sweetness  in  the  voice — all  be- 
trayed the  intensity  of  his  emotional  life.  He  spoke 
very  little,  he  dreamed  a  great  deal,  and  his  reveries 
were  evidently  full  of  charm. 

I  do  not  know  how  to  explain  it,  but  in  proportion 
as  he  seemed  to  live  fuller  and  deeper  in  joy,  I  grew 
sadder  and  sadder.  This  new  emotion  was  the  first 
sentiment  of  my  young  master  that  I  had  not  shared, 
and  it  seemed  to  make  me  no  longer  necessary  to  his 
happiness;  and  threw  me  more  and  more  upon  myself. 
I  felt  for  the  first  time  the  terrible  loneliness  of  aban- 
donment. And  yet  he  had  not  at  all  abandoned  me. 
I  was  present  at  all  the  interviews  between  him  and 

Mile  C .  Neither  was  I  wholly  insensible  to  her 

charms.  But  my  heart  was  filled  with  the  image  of 
another.  The  ideal  woman  for  me  was  all  sweetness, 
all  gentleness:  not  strong  enough  to  stand  quite  alone 
in  the  world,  but  needing  to  lean  where  strength  is; 
and  I  would  have  wished  to  be  that  strength.  But  in 
Mile  C I  felt  something  superior  to  myself,  and 

83 


84          THE   JOURNAL   OF  A  RECLUSE 

where  is  the  man,  not  effeminate,  who  loves  triumphant 
superiority  in  woman? 

In  my  young  lord  she  had  found  a  will  as  strong  as 
her  own — and  an  intelligence  much  broader  and  finer, 
and  better  trained.  She  never  for  a  moment  seemed  to 
me  his  equal,  and  yet  I  thought  her  a  very  superior 
woman.  But  I  distrusted  her  influence  over  him.  I 
felt  vaguely  that  there  had  been  in  her  life  some  ter- 
rible experience  which  had  completely  disillusioned  her, 
destroyed  her  faith  in  man,  and  left  her  nothing  but  an 
immense  pride  and  ambition,  and  a  broken  power  of 
affection,  wounded,  sensitive  and  not  destined  to  make 
happy  those  on  whom  it  was  lavished. 

Now  that  the  years  have  given  me  a  perspective  and 
I  'can  see  in  their  true  relations  all  the  incidents  of  my 
life,  and  through  them  can  judge  the  lives  of  others,  I 
look  back,  and  I  seem  to  see  in  this  woman  the  incar- 
nate spirit  of  revolt  which  characterizes  the  women  of 
our  century.  It  has  been  called  pre-eminently  a  skep- 
tical, material  age:  men  have  turned  from  revelation  to 
observation,  and  have  destroyed  with  needless  fury  the 
articles  of  faith  in  defense  of  which  they  once  destroyed 
each  other.  The  microscope  has  superseded  the  super- 
natural ;  mind  is  a  property  of  matter,  one  of  the  count- 
less manifestations  of  motion,  and  the  emotions  are  sub- 
jected to  an  analysis  as  curious  as  that  of  matter.  But 
none  of  them  has  suffered  so  much  by  this  analysis  as 
the  passion  of  love.  Idealized  by  women  and  poets  as 
something  divine,  it  has  been  degraded  to  a  mere  appe- 
tite disguised  by  countless  coquetries,  a  short-lived  hun- 
ger, destined  inevitably  to  satiety  if  satisfied,  and  capa- 
ble ,of  innumerable  re-awakenings  for  different  objects. 
Such  an  idea  is  fatal  to  the  happiness  of  women.  What ! 
make  so  fickle  and  transitory  a  passion  the  basis  of  one's 
happiness  for  life!  To  live  from  hand  to  mouth  like 
a  beggar,  never  sure  that  the  caresses  received  to-day 
will  not  change  to  curses  to-morrow,  who  for  a  moment 
could  endure  such  a  destiny?  The  pain,  the  bitterness 


THE   OLD,   OLD  PATHWAY  85 

of  this  disillusionment  colors  deeply  the  literature  of 
our  age.  It  has  given  us  a  literature  of  hysteria,  a 
literature  of  the  human  beast  triumphing  over  the  tra- 
ditions of  culture;  an  apotheosis  of  instinct  over  reason, 
in  which  a  return  to  barbarism  is  declared  to  be  the 
direct  road  to  progress.  In  this  literature,  the  sneer 
of  the  debauchee  passes  for  wit,  his  audacity  for  cour- 
age, and  the  odors  of  the  cesspools  which  he  uncovers 
are  sniffed  as  greedily  as  if  they  were  the  spices  of 
Arabia.  But  this  cannot  always  last;  and  when  society 
seems  ready  to  die  of  rottenness,  her  disease  will  be 
recognized,  stringent  remedies  will  be  applied,  and  vir- 
tue will  once  more  be  recognized  as  health  and  sanity. 

I  have  said  that  I  was  always  present  at  the  inter- 
views between  my  lord  and  Mile  C .  They  were  ac- 
customed to  meet  two  or  three  times  a  week,  oftenest  at 
our  lodgings;  but  when  the  beautiful  spring  days  made 
it  a  pleasure  to  be  out  of  doors,  they  often  met  in  the 
Bois  de  Boulogne.  There  was  a  beautiful  little  grove 
of  oaks  near  a  pond  at  some  little  distance  from  the 
most  frequented  paths,  and  this  was  their  favorite  ren^ 
'dezvous.  A  light  low  carriage  had  been  especially  built 
for  Lord  Eliot's  use.  The  main  body  of  it  was  curved 
in  such  a  fashion  that  he  could  half  recline  at  his  ease  in 
it,  and  the  coachman's  box  could  seat  two  people  quite 
[comfortably.  But  he  preferred  me  to  drive  him  alone 
to  these  meetings  with  Mile  C — • — ,  and  liked  me  to  re- 
main with  them  during  their  conversation;  sometimes 
I  was  even  invited  to  take  my  part  in  it,  but  much 
oftener  I  was  a  silent  listener,  and  sooner  or  later  quite 
forgotten  by  them.  Sometimes  I  took  a  book  with  me 
and  read  or  strolled  about  in  sight  of  the  carriage,  but 
beyond  hearing. 

Their  conversations  were  often  playful,  mere  youth- 
ful fun  bubbling  over  from  both  of  them,  but  sometimes 
very  earnest  and  always  sincere.  Perhaps  without  real- 
izing it  themselves,  each  was  modifying  the  opinions  of 
the  other.  She  was  growing  less  and  less  dogmatic  and 


86         THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

declamatory,  and  he  more  and  more  penetrating  and 
more  indulgent  in  his  views  of  men  and  their  relations 
to  each  other.  She  found  in  him  a  precocious,  clear- 
sighted intelligence  which  a  physical  infirmity  had  not 
weakened,  but  rather  sharpened,  by  adding  to  it  a  keen 
sensitiveness.  I  have  often  since  compared  him  men- 
tally to  Leopardi,  whom  he  much  resembled  in  his  gifts 
and  in  his  infirmities;  and  if  he  never  reflected  the 
poet's  pessimism  in  his  language,  I  am  not  sure  that 
it  was  never  in  his  thoughts.  But  a  certain  indomitable 
pride — a  fine  perception  of  the  full  extent  of  the  beau- 
tiful significance  of  the  phrase  "noblesse  oblige,"  would 
have  made  him  feel  that  pessimism  is  an  involuntary 
revelation  of  inner  wretchedness.  We  are  all  optimists 
in  the  sunny  days  of  youth  and  health. 

And  to  him,  she  was  woman  in  her  most  dangerous, 
seductive  form.  I  shall  never  forget  her  one  particular 
afternoon  in  early  summer,  when  the  air  was  filled  with 
the  music  of  birds  and  the  odors  of  flowers.  We  had 
arrived  the  first  at  the  little  grove,  something  which 
rarely  happened.  It  was  then  that  I  noticed  in  my 
young  master  something  feverish  and  agitated,  quite 
unlike  his  usual  calm.  A  little  shiver  passed  over  his 
body  from  time  to  time,  and  I  noticed  that  his  arms 
sometimes  twitched  convulsively.  Whether  he  was  suf- 
fering physically  or  mentally  I  could  not  make  out,  for 
I  dared  not  observe  him  closely,  without  betraying  my 
anxiety.  He  spoke  with  unaccustomed  haste,  addressed 
questions  to  me  and  did  not  wait  for  me  to  reply,  but 
continued  to  talk  upon  one  indifferent  subject  or  an- 
other, evidently  trying  to  escape  some  fixed  idea  that 
tormented  him.  I  resolved  not  to  leave  him  this  after- 
noon, lest  he  might  be  seized  with  a  paroxysm  of  suf- 
fering. My  heart  bled  for  him.  I  would  willingly  have 
given  him  all  my  strength  and  taken  his  infirmity  upon 
myself  had  it  been  possible.  My  mind  hurried  forward 
to  meet  the  woman  whose  coming  was  to  bring  him 
joy.  Would  she  notice,  as  I  did,  that  he  was  not  quite 


THE   OLD,   OLD  PATHWAY  87 

himself?  Would  she  be  gentle  with  him,  as  she  knew 
so  well  how  to  be,  or  would  she  be  capricious  and  teas- 
ing? And  while  I  was  wondering,  I  saw  the  flutter 
of  her  white  dress  through  the  trees,  and  in  a  moment 
she  was  with  us,  so  beautiful,  so  fresh,  so  radiant  with 
health,  that  she  seemed  to  make  a  circle  of  light  about 
her.  She  did  not  seat  herself  as  usual  on  the  bench  near 
the  carriage,  but  came  quite  close  to  him,  remaining 
standing.  She  had  a  book  with  a  yellow  paper  binding 
in  her  hand. 

"What  have  you  there?"  asked  Lord  Eliot,  noticing 
it  at  once. 

I  often  observed  that  they  almost  always  met  in  this 
way,  without  exchanging  any  formal  greeting.  It  was 
as  if  they  had  never  been  separated.  One  day  he  said 
a  pretty  thing  to  me  that  explained  it  all. 

"  Do  you  know  that  there  may  be  moments  in  our 
relations  with  those  we  love,  when  we  leave  them  to 
be  nearer  to  them?  Absent,  they  are  all  our  own.  We 
hold  them  so  near,  so  near  to  us.  They  say  only  what 
we  wish  to  hear,  and  we  say  nothing  to  them  which  we 
wish  afterwards  unsaid.  We  understand  each  other  so 
perfectly  in  these  solitary  meetings  of  the  fancy,  that 
the  reality  is  sometimes  deadly  cold  in  comparison." 

He  did  not  know  how  well  I  understood  him,  and 
how  often  of  late  I  had  left  him  to  be  nearer  to  him. 

She  smiled  at  his  question  and  held  out  the  volume 
to  him,  and  he  read  aloud  its  title: 

"Poesies  completes  de  Alfred  de  Musset."  He 
changed  color,  and  frowned. 

"  Why  do  you  read  such  stuff  as  that  ?  " 

She  took  back  the  book,  turned  over  its  leaves  care- 
lessly, and  answered: 

"  Because  he  is  talked  of  now,  and  because  future  cen- 
turies will  talk  of  him,  and  say  that  he  represents  the 
mental  attitude  of  his  age  in  its  aspiration  and  its  de- 
spair. You  don't  believe  that,  of  course." 

"  No,  I  don't  believe  it.     He  represents  neither  you 


88          THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

nor  me,  nor  the  little  world  in  which  we  each  live,  nor 
the  bigger  world  in  which  the  great  mass  of  men  toil 
and  think.  And  thank  God  he  doesn't.  I  should  de- 
spair of  the  future,  and  you  ought  to  despair  of  it,  too, 
if  he  represented  us.  He  represents  no  one  but  him- 
self and  those  like  him  who  try  to  find  happiness  in 
debauchery  and  fall  to  whining  because  they  can't  find 
it  there.  Do  you  think  that  we  are  all  such  cowards 
that  we  cannot  accept  the  disillusionments  of  life  with- 
out ever  finding  anything  better  to  do  than  to  sob  and 
cry  over  them  like  children  who  have  broken  their 
china  dolls?" 

"But  if  it  is  a  poet  who  weeps?  If  the  sobs  are 
rhythmical  and  melodious?  Aren't  you  just  a  little  bit 
hard  on  the  artistic  temperament  ?  " 

"  Artistic  temperament !  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ? 
Perpetual  infancy?  Impotence  with  regard  to  reality? 
The  power  to  see  nothing,  feel  nothing,  know  nothing 
outside  of  the  little  imaginary  world  of  which  you  are 
the  center  ?  I  know  nothing  so  wickedly  selfish  and  cruel 
and  so  absolutely  useless  as  that.  I  respect  the  dream 
world  of  the  opium-eater  a  thousand  times  more  than 
the  dream  world  of  the  idealist;  for  it  knows  itself  for 
what  it  is;  it  calls  itself  by  the  right  name;  while  the 
other  gives  itself  out  for  all  sorts  of  fine  things  and 
seduces  poor  fools  to  believe  in  it  to  their  everlasting 
misfortune  and  unhappiness.  It  is  insanity  calling  it- 
self wisdom,  disease  passing  itself  off  for  health,  filth 
and  nastiness  covering  itself  with  tinsel  and  perfume, 
and  shouting  '  How  clean  I  am !  How  sweet  I  smell ! ' 
No!  the  great  artists  of  the  world  have  been  made  of 
stronger  fiber  than  that.  They  have  had  superb  courage. 
They  didn't  go  on  blowing  bubbles  to  the  end  of  their 
life,  hoping  to  find  one  at  last  that  would  be  solid 
enough  to  take  hold  of.  They  turned  to  what  is  solid, 
they  touched  it,  rested  on  it,  found  it  good.  They  re- 
ported of  what  is  as  well  as  of  what  ought  to  be,  and 
we  go  on  reading  their  reports  to  the  end  of  our  days; 


THE   OLD,   OLD  PATHWAY  89 

but  what  man  of  sound  judgment  and  clean  life  could 
read  Alfred  de  Musset  after  forty  ?  " 

"  But  you — you  are  not  forty ;  you  are  twenty.  Have 
you  no  idea  of  what  love  is  ?  " 

She  was  standing  very  near  him,  the  warm  color 
surging  over  her  beautiful  face.  He  looked  at  her  a 
long  time  without  answering,  looked  at  her  unflinchingly 
and  then  said  in  a  quiet  voice  which  sounded  cold,  but 
back  of  which  I  felt  the  iron  will  mastering  the  feel- 
ings within  him: 

"  I  have  some  idea,  but  to  me  love  is  as  far  from 
debauchery  as  sunlight  from  lamplight." 

"  And  yet  nine  men  out  of  ten  would  not  understand 
you,  but  will  understand  Musset  very  well.  It  is  here 
that  you  are  an  idealist." 

"  What  pleasure  do  you  get  from  torturing  me  in 
this  way  ?  " 

"  Does  it  torture  you  ?  I  did  not  know  that.  You 
have  said  to  me  many  a  time  that  you  loved  the  truth, 
preferred  it,  no  matter  how  naked  and  ugly,  to  the  most 
beautiful  illusion,  sparkling  with  specious  ornaments. 
Do  you  really  ?  " 

"Without  question." 

She  turned  her  eyes  away,  looking  dreamily  before 
her;  then,  as  if  a  sudden  thought  had  occurred  to  her, 
she  turned  to  him  eagerly,  saying: 

"  I  am  going  to  put  that  question  in  a  more  particu- 
lar form.  Imagine  that  you  have  a  friend  whom  you 
have  adorned  with  all  the  beautiful  qualities  of  your 
own  generous  mind.  Would  you  rather  know  that 
these  qualities  had  no  other  foundation  than  the  blind- 
ness of  your  friendship,  or  would  you  prefer  to  prolong 
this  illusion  for  your  own  happiness  and  contentment  ?  " 

"  I  should  wish  to  know  the  truth." 

"  And  if  the  friendship  were  destined  to  die  by  this 
revelation  ?  " 

He  was  very  white  as  he  answered: 

"  Then  it  must  die.     I  want  no  happiness  built  over 


90         THE  JOURNAL  OF  A  RECLUSE 

an  abyss  slightly  bridged  by  illusions.  I  want  to  wor- 
ship no  creature  made  by  my  own  hands.  The  truth 
at  any  price.  I  think  we  should  hesitate  a  long  time  be- 
fore doubting,  but  once  absolutely  sure  that  our  friends 
have  been  faithless  to  us  or  are  unworthy  of  us,  I  think 
we  should  cut  them  out  of  our  lives  as  fearlessly  as  we 
cut  off  a  gangrened  limb  and  never  count  the  cost  in 
pain  or  crippling,  though  we  must  go  maimed  through 
life  for  it.  I  hope  I  know  how  to  suffer  in  silence  like 
a  man,  and  not  like  Musset.  Be  very  sure  that  I 
shouldn't  call  in  the  world  to  hear  me  sob  and  sniffle, 
even  if  I  were  musical  at  it." 

He  threw  back  his  head  proudly,  his  handsome  face 
expressing  a  supreme  contempt,  his  eyes  glowing  with 
a  dazzling  light. 

She  looked  at  him  as  if  fascinated,  and  then  her  face 
lighted  up  with  a  sort  of  superb  audacity : 

"  I  shall  put  you  to  the  proof,"  she  said,  in  a  voice 
singularly  low  and  firm.  Then  looking  around,  her 
glance  fell  on  me,  and  with  a  smile  of  great  sweetness, 
she  said : 

"  Will  you  excuse  me  if  I  wish  to  be  with  Lord 
L a  few  minutes  alone?" 

I  glanced  at  my  young  master,  and  he  slightly  nodded 
his  head  as  a  sign  of  dismissal.  I  left  my  seat  imme- 
diately and  walked  away.  I  recall  it  all  now,  as  if  It 
had  happened  yesterday ;  the  winding  path  across  which 
the  sunlight  lay  in  broken  bars — the  violets  blooming 
here  and  there  along  its  edge,  and  on  my  heart  the 
chill  shadow  of  approaching  grief.  I  walked  about  for 
an  hour  or  more,  before  returning,  knowing  well  how 
quickly  the  time  would  pass  with  them.  When  I  came 
back  I  found  him  alone.  He  was  staring  before  him 
with  wide,  dry  eyes,  and  an  expression  of  immense  suf- 
fering. I  feared  he  was  very  ill,  but  at  the  first  word  I 
uttered,  he  lifted  his  hand  as  a  token  of  silence,  and  bade 
me  drive  him  home.  I  never  knew  what  she  said  to 
him;  but  I  have  made  many  conjectures  about  it.  Un- 


THE   OLD,   OLD  PATHWAY  91 

doubtedly,  there  had  been  something  in  her  life  which 
shocked  terribly  this  mind  so  pure  and  yet  so  broad  that 
it  was  not  easily  shocked.  But  whatever  it  was,  he 
never  spoke  of  it,  nor  did  he  ever  see  her  or  mention  her 
name  to  me  again.  But  the  blow  had  struck  deep.  It 
sapped  his  vitality;  for  nights  and  nights,  I  know  that 
he  hardly  slept  at  all,  and  his  days  were  feverish,  rest- 
less and  filled  with  vain  attempts  to  distract  himself 
from  the  fixed  idea  which  had  become  his  torment 


CHAPTER  X 

TRAVELING    AGAIN 

WE  left  Paris,  going  to  Switzerland,  where  the  fam- 
ily joined  us;  we  finished  the  summer  on  the  shores  of 
Lake  Geneva,  and  in  autumn  went  to  Naples.  Here  we 
began  to  be  seriously  alarmed  at  the  increasing  weak- 
ness of  my  young  master.  He  seemed  to  be  slowly 
dying  before  our  eyes  without  our  being  able  to  assign 
to  any  definite  malady  the  cause  of  his  condition.  I, 
alone,  suspected  the  truth;  but  I  respected  so  much  the 
secret  of  his  soul  which  he  could  not  reveal,  that  I  had 
not  the  courage  to  speak  of  it,  until  his  condition  be- 
came really  critical.  Then  I  resolved  to  talk  with  our 
tutor  about  it,  for  he  was  still  with  us,  the  indispensable 
Companion  of  our  studies  and  amusements.  One  morn- 
ing when  Lady  Margaret  and  her  mother  were  espe- 
cially assiduous  about  Lord  Eliot,  I  went  out  with  Rich- 
ard Glenn  for  a  walk.  We  took  the  via  Tasso,  climb- 
ing the  heights,  from  which  we  had  a  magnificent  view 
of  the  bay  and  the  city.  We  passed  a  little  monastery 
in  which  a  choir  of  monks  were  singing  together,  and 
we  stopped  a  moment  to  listen  to  them.  Molti  peccati 
was  all  that  we  could  understand  of  the  song  that  made 
the  tranquil  morning  air  vibrate  sonorously.  At  the 
right  and  above  us  the  terraces  were  green  with  vines 
richly  loaded  with  purple  grapes.  At  last,  we  entered  a 
road  enclosed  on  either  side  by  high  stone  walls  in  the 
chinks  of  which  wild  flowers  and  ferns  were  growing, 
and  white  and  orange-colored  butterflies  were  fluttering 
about  them,  looking  themselves  like  flowers  endowed 
with  motion.  The  air  was  admirably  fresh  and  pure  and 
we  felt  exhilarated  by  our  walk. 

"  How  I  wish  Lord  Eliot  could  be  with  us  this  morn- 

92 


93 

ing,"  I  exclaimed,  rather  for  the  purpose  of  introducing 
his  name  and  directing  the  conversation  to  him,  than 
for  anything  else. 

"  Yes,  I  do,  too,  but  I  fear "  he  paused  and  shook 

his  head  anxiously  and  sighed. 

"  You  fear  as  I  do,"  I  returned,  "  that  he  is  more 
dangerously  ill  than  we  think."  Then  without  more 
ado,  and  as  simply  as  I  could,  I  related  my  fears  and 
suspicions  and  concluded  by  asking  whether  it  were  pos- 
sible that  an  emotion  too  intense  could  result  in  any 
one's  death. 

"  Certainly,"  he  answered  quickly.  "  In  a  nature  very 
sensitive  joined  to  a  feeble  body,  a  profound  emotion 
can  kill  like  a  slow  poison.  Lord  Eliot  has  this  sensi- 
tive temperament,  this  suffering  body.  Love  has  come 
to  him  with  all  the  intensity  of  a  primitive  passion; 
he  has  suffered  deeply  through  it,  and  he  will  probably 
die  of  it.  He  has  a  precocious  intelligence — and  with  a 
strong  body,  his  head  would  have  succeeded  in  killing 
his  heart;  he  might  have  become  a  cynic  like  Schopen- 
hauer, or  a  philosopher  of  the  Goethean  type,  urbane, 
moderate,  with  a  large  and  piercing  vision — a  sage, 
the  principal  need  of  whose  life  is  to  belong  to  himself 
as  much  as  possible,  while  keeping  his  intelligence  alert 
and  awake.  But  he  has  not  the  physical  force  to  throw 
off  the  depressing,  deadly  effect  of  this  sudden  with- 
drawal from  his  life  of  all  that  gave  it  beauty  and 
meaning.  The  fact  that  he  has  never  spoken  to  you  of 
it  is  sinister.  The  man  who  can  talk  of  his  grief  is  in 
a  fair  way  to  recovery.  But  he  who  bleeds  inwardly, 
and  will  not  reveal  his  wound  may  die  of  it.  Oh,  how 
cruel,  how  cruel  these  hidden  wounds  are  that  no  eye 
sees  or  suspects,  and  yet  that  break  the  springs  of  life 
in  us,  robbing  the  sun  of  his  light  and  the  cheerful 
earth  of  her  verdure.  But  few  men  or  women  of  any 
capacity  for  deep  feeling  pass  through  life  without  some 
such  experience.  Nature,  with  her  one  inevitable  pur- 
pose, is  at  work  within  us  all;  but  we  do  not  always 


94         THE   JOURNAL   OF  A  RECLUSE 

understand  the  meaning  of  this  restless  tenderness  that 
fills  us  with  visions  and  longings.  We  can't  see  deeper 
than  surfaces,  and  beauty  takes  the  place  of  everything; 
we  have  only  one  real  need  at  twenty.  It  is  to  love  and 
to  be  loved.  A  scorching  thirst  devours  us,  and  if  we 
cannot  find  a  pure,  clear  spring,  we  stoop  to  wet  our 
parched  lips  at  the  first  pool  of  dirty  water  that  we  find 
along  the  highway.  A  common  nature  will  feel  no  re- 
pugnance at  this;  but  for  a  refined,  superior  nature, 
nothing  is  so  degrading,  so  humiliating  as  to  have  lav- 
ished the  best  treasures  of  the  heart  on  a  low,  unworthy 
object.  And  I  have  one  counsel  to  give  you:  If  in  lov- 
ing you  have  still  some  power  to  choose,  and  are  not  the 
victim  of  a  blind  instinct,  love  what  is  above  you  and 
not  what  is  below;  and  if  you  are  destined  to  be  un- 
happy at  least  some  nobleness  will  be  mingled  with  your 
grief.  You  will  be  lifted,  purified  by  it,  not  degraded. 
A  love  like  that  will  not  kill.  You  may  be  struck  down, 
but  it  will  be  to  rise  again.  You  will  not  despise 
yourself  for  having  taken  tinsel  for  gold.  You  will  feel 
rather  a  noble  pride  that  it  was  permitted  to  you  to  see 
the  highest  and  love  it  passionately." 

I  felt  my  blood  driven  back  to  my  heart,  then  surge 
to  the  surface  in  floods  of  color.  Did  he  guess  my 
secret? 

"  Can't  you  speak  to  him  ?  "  I  asked  in  an  unsteady 
voice,  "  and-  win,  in  some  way,  his  confidence,  so  that 
he  can  rid  himself  of  this  burden  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  it  is  too  late ;  I  should  have 
anticipated  the  result  of  this  connection  long  ago,  and 
broken  it  off.  But  I  was  deceived  by  his  wonderful 
self-control,  by  the  clearness  and  coolness  of  his  head, 
and  the  fact  that,  from  his  childhood,  women  have  made 
much  of  him  and  so  destroyed  his  impressionability  by 
familiarity.  But  one  can  no  more  reason  with  passion 
than  with  hunger  and  thirst  or  any  other  physical  ne- 
cessity. It  can  be  killed,  though,  by  supplanting  it 
with  another  passion.  Happily,  he  has  a  keen  and  large 


TRAVELING  AGAIN  95 

intelligence.  He  is  easily  interested  in  everything 
worthy  of  attention.  The  situation  of  this  beautiful 
Italy  has  touched  him.  Let  us  try  to  sharpen  his  inter- 
est. Let  us  manage  an  introduction  of  the  heads  of 
the  Liberal  party  to  him.  I  believe  that  I  can  bring 
about  an  audience  with  Mazzini,  or  rather  with  one 
of  his  most  intimate  friends  who  shares  all  his  opinions 
— a  brilliant,  big-hearted  fellow  who  happens  just  now, 
to  be  in  Naples." 

"Do  you  know  Mazzini  himself?" 

"  O  yes,  very  well.  I  met  him  for  the  first  time  at 
London  a  few  years  ago.  He  had  established  there  an 
association  of  workmen,  and  during  the  summer  vaca- 
tions I  made  it  my  particular  business  to  attend  their 
meetings  to  hear  Mazzini  talk.  I  never  met  any  one 
who  was  altogether  so  wise  and  just  a  friend  of  the 
laborer  as  he  was.  But  his  own  mind,  so  delicate,  so 
broad,  probably  exaggerated  the  possibility  of  awaken- 
ing in  the  ordinary  man  those  elevated  sentiments  which 
make  the  real  distinction  between  the  vulgar  and  the 
noble.  I  never  met  any  man  with  a  purer,  more  dis- 
interested love  for  his  fellow-man.  He  loved  the  work- 
men far  too  well  to  flatter  them,  or  to  excite  their  envy 
against  the  rich.  He  never  left  off  telling  them  that 
their  real  happiness  and  distinction  depended  upon  what 
they  were  in  themselves  and  not  in  their  possessions; 
that  dress,  rich  and  abundant  food,  fine  buildings,  and 
all  the  external  appearances  of  luxury  could  not  elevate 
them  one  inch.  He  knew  very  well  that  it  is  difficult, 
perhaps  impossible,  as  he  said,  to  make  a  source  of  in- 
spiration in  morality  alone  without  a  dogma  or  a  heaven 
to  support  it;  but  he  never  ceased  to  show  the  inap- 
proachable beauty  of  perfect  virtue  as  the  finest  of  the 
old  masters  taught  it,  that  is  to  say,  virtue  which  pro- 
poses no  other  aim  than  itself.  To  do  right  not  because 
it  is  expedient,  not  becnuse  it  will  bring  its  reward,  but 
because  it  is  right,  was  the  inflexible  basis  of  his  code 
of  ethics.  Therefore,  he  never  baited  his  moral  pr 


cepts  with  sugar  plums  to  make  them  go  down  the 
easier.  On  the  contrary,  he  said :  *  Do  right  without 
thinking  of  the  consequences.  Learn  to  suffer  with 
courage.  The  aim  of  life  is  not  happiness,  it  is  develop- 
ment. Keep  on  growing  broader,  better.  Rain  is  as 
essential  to  growth  as  sunlight.  Life  is  duty;  if  duty 
is  agreeable,  so  much  the  better,  but  if  your  tears  must 
flow  as  you  do  it,  do  it  just  the  same,  and  weep,  if  that 
solaces  you.'  I  think  I  can  recall  the  exact  words  of 
one  of  his  stirring  sentences.  Here  it  is :  '  Whether 
the  sun  shine  with  the  serene  splendor  of  an  Italian 
morn,  or  the  leaden,  corpse-like  hue  of  the  northern 
mist,  I  cannot  see  that  it  changes  our  duty.'  Magnifi- 
cent words,  aren't  they?  I  used  to  come  away  from 
his  talks  feeling  singularly  rested  and  lifted ;  and  though 
the  heavy  London  fog  choked  the  streets,  the  night 
seemed  full  of  stars.  He  had  beautiful  things,  too,  to 
say  of  love.  He  hadn't  dragged  his  ideals  through  filth 
with  loose  living.  He  had  no  sneers  for  chastity,  and 
he  complained  that  modern  writers  have  degraded  love 
in  persistently  searching  for  sensuality  as  the  basis  of  it. 
Woman,  he  said,  has  been  degraded  to  the  female,  and 
he  wished  that  women,  laying  aside  their  frivolity  and 
vanity,  would  search  in  man  for  what  is  noble  in  him  to 
encourage  and  support  it,  and  that  love  between  them 
should  be  the  two  wings  to  bear  them  toward  the  ideal. 
But  he  didn't  make  a  fetich  of  love;  he  was  no  fem- 
melette,  he  was  a  man,  and  he  called  love  a  flower 
that  blooms  along  the  pathway  of  life,  but  said  that  it 
could  not  change  duty.  His  own  life  was  beautiful  with 
renunciation  of  it.  His  country  called  him,-  and  he  could 
not  stop  to  gather  the  flower  that  grew  in  his  pathway; 
but  he  did  not  tread  on  it  scornfully  and  brutally;  he 
stepped  aside  and  carried  the  memory  of  its  beauty 
with  him  till  the  end  of  his  life." 

Thus  chatting,  we  walked  on,  stopping  sometimes  to 
examine  a  new  flower,  or  to  express  our  joy  in  a  new 
glimpse  of  the  beautiful  landscape. 


TRAVELING  AGAIN  97 

Succeeding  in  his  plan,  our  tutor  had  very  soon  drawn 
into  Lord  Eliot's  circle  the  most  brilliant  and  most 
celebrated  young  patriots  of  Italy  who  happened  at  that 
time  to  be  staying  in  Naples.  In  their  suite  were  other 
young  men  of  noble  birth,  attracted  not  so  much  by 
Lord  Eliot's  personality  as  by  the  remarkable  beauty 
of  his  sister,  Lady  Margaret.  Among  them  was  a  young 
marquis — with  many  superficial  showy  accomplish- 
ments, a  handsome  but  empty  head,  a  cold  heart,  a 
great  deal  of  egotism  and  a  sensual  temperament,  by 
virtue  of  which  he  was  par  excellence  what  is  called 
a  ladies'  man.  He  knew  admirably  how  to  address 
himself  to  the  most  vulnerable  point  in  a  woman's  van- 
ity— the  wish  to  believe  herself  of  paramount  influence 
in  the  life  of  a  man;  and  made  her  believe  that  his 
tastes,  his  character,  his  destiny  depended  on  her  alone. 
He  was  a  fluent  talker  of  the  thousand  flattering  little 
personalities  so  dear  to  the  heart  of  a  woman,  and 
knew  how  to  render  all  the  little  services  and  attentions 
which  a  pretty  woman  expects.  Now  the  character  of 
Don  Juan  has  never  seemed  to  me  anything  but  con- 
temptible, and  the  man  who  boasts  of  being  a  lady- 
killer  seems  to  me  on  a  par  with  the  hunter  who  should 
boast  of  his  prowess  in  a  zoological  garden  where  he 
could  kill  a  caged  lion  with  the  butt  of  his  gun.  Most 
women  are  as  easy  game  to  a  man  who  can  flatter  and 
lie,  as  tame  barn-yard  fowl.  They  fly  into  his  hands 
in  both  cases.  He  couldn't  help  catching  them  if  he 
would,  yet  most  Don  Juans  classify  themselves  with  the 
Caesars  and  Bonapartes,  and  think  that  the  easy  capture 
of  a  woman's  heart  is  equal  to  the  taking  of  a  citadel. 
They  forget  that  there  is  a  decided  difference  in  the 
conditions.  The  first  business  of  the  average  woman  is 
to  b?  captured.  She  wishes  to  be  taken  care  of,  to  be 
settled  for  the  future,  and  capitulates  with  gratitude. 
The  first  business  of  a  beleaguered  city  is  not  to  be 
taken,  and  she  resists  till  death  and  famine  open  her 
gates. 


98         THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

It  is  not  necessary  to  say,  then,  that  the  young  mar- 
quis was  violently  antipathetic  to  me  and  he  was  none 
the  less  so  to  Lord  Eliot;  but  alas!  so  low  as  he  fell  in 
our  favor,  so  high  did  he  rise  in  the  esteem  of  Lady 
Margaret.  She  was  at  this  time  in  the  full  splendor  of 
her  fresh,  young  beauty,  to  the  charm  of  which  she 
added  a  simplicity  and  grace  of  manner  extremely  fas- 
cinating. But  I  noticed  that  in  the  presence  of  the  mar- 
quis she  was  agitated  and  timid,  and  I  cannot  describe 
the  shock  and  pain  which  this  discovery  was  to  me. 
I  had  but  to  look  into  my  own  heart  to  know  what 
that  shrinking  timidity  meant;  not  that  I  was  such  an 
ass  as  to  believe  that  I  could  ever  be  anything  to  her 
but  an  humble  friend  and  silent  adorer,  not  that  I  was 
capable  of  being  jealous  of  her  happiness.  No,  I  could 
have  seen  her  united  to  one  worthy  of  her  in  every  way, 
and  could  have  rejoiced  at  her  promised  happiness,  and 
been  grateful  that  she  at  least  had  escaped  the  pain 
of  loving  without  return.  But  to  see  her  waste  the 
treasure  of  her  pure  and  noble  heart  on  a  shallow  liber- 
tine was  agony  to  me. 

I  had  seen  this  young  girl  in  a  thousand  amiable 
situations,  yielding  her  will  to  her  parents  or  to  her 
brother  whom  she  adored,  showing  the  sweetness  and 
flexibility  of  her  mind  under  a  tutor  indulgent  but 
firm ;  showing  also  that  exquisite  delicacy  which  in  a 
pure,  young  girl  makes  us  liken  her  to  a  flower,  all 
beauty  and  perfume.  I  never  dared  to  address  her 
first,  I  hardly  dared  even  to  look  at  her,  so  fearful  was 
I  that  I  might  betray  my  love,  but  secretly  I  devoured 
her  with  my  eyes,  and  there  was  not  a  charm  of  that 
fresh,  young  beauty  that  had  escaped  me.  And  yet 
so  exalted,  so  perfect  was  my  love  that  it  asked  noth- 
ing in  return;  and  all  my  joy  was  to  see  her,  to  hear 
her  laugh,  to  hear  her  talk.  A  word,  a  smile  directed 
to  me  alone,  made  me  exquisitely  happy  for  days  after- 
wards. 

We  have  so  soiled  our  thoughts  of  love  by  searching 


TRAVELING  AGAIN  99 

the  foundation  of  this  sweet  flame  in  the  desires  of  the 
flesh,  that  we  read  Dante  with  sneering  incredulity, 
and  even  doubt  the  reality  of  this  Beatrice  who  was  the 
inspiration  of  his  life,  and  make  of  her  a  symbol  of 
intellectual  perfection.  But  as  for  me,  thanks  to  this 
experience  of  my  early  youth,  I  can  read  the  Vita 
Nuova  and  feel  all  the  truth  of  that  passion  so  intense 
that  its  white  heat  has  burned  out  all  the  smoke  and 
ashes  of  carnality,  and  I  can  sing  with  the  poet : 

"  Dico  quando  ella  apparia  da  parte  alcuna  per  la 
speransa  dell'ammirabile  Salute,  nullo  nemico  mi  ri- 
manea;  anzi  mi  giugneva  una  fiamma  di  caritade,  la 
quale  mi  facea  perdonare  a  chiunque  m'avesse  offeso: 
e  chi  allora  m'avesse  addimandato  di  cosa  alcuna,  la 
mia  responsione  sarebbe  stata  solamente  Amore,  con 
viso  vestito  d'umilta." 

She  had  not  her  brother's  strong  and  courageous 
mind,  and  could  not  follow  him  in  his  bold  flights  in 
search  of  the  truth.  She  trembled  face  to  face  with  the 
great  questions  of  scientific  research,  and  turning  from 
them,  gladly  grasped  the  loving  hand  that  seemed  ex- 
tended to  her  from  the  darkness,  saying,  "  I  trust,  I 
believe."  She  was  sensitive  to  the  beautiful  in  all  its 
forms.  She  knew  human  nature  only  through  her  own 
qualities,  and  was  always  discovering  heroes  where 
there  were  only  borrowed  lion's  skins.  Lord  Eliot,  teas- 
ing her  sometimes,  told  her  she  was  destined,  like  Ti- 
tania,  to  fall  in  love  with  an  ass's  head. 

The  particular  object  of  her  study  was  art.  She 
hadn't,  to  be  sure,  either  originality  or  force  enough  to 
make  a  great  artist  (what  woman  has?)  but  she  suc- 
ceeded admirably  in  reproducing  cheerful,  sunny  land- 
scapes, a  corner  of  a  flowery  meadow,  a  handful  of 
roses,  or  a  delicate,  young  face  like  her  own. 

About  this  time  there  was  a  sort  of  renaissance  of 
early  art,  of  which  the  followers  have  since  received 
the  name  of  pre-Raphaelites.  It  was  a  movement  back- 
wards instead  of  forwards,  for  it  wished  to  re-animate 


ioo        THE   JOURNAL   OF   A   RECLUSE 

a  faith  that  science  had  killed,  by  making  it  live  again 
in  a  form  of  art  that  does  not  belong  to  our  century. 
But  it  was  especially  agreeable  to  minds  filled  with 
reverence  for  the  past  and  not  willing  to  break  with 
it  wholly,  and  for  timid  minds  distrustful  of  their 
powers  in  a  milieu  they  could  not  reproduce,  and,  from 
a  certain  romantic  turn  of  mind,  could  not  enjoy. 

It  is  to  me  a  striking  proof  of  the  contagious  char- 
acter of  taste,  that  I,  who  had  been  at  first  repelled 
by  the  old  masters,  learned  now  to  love  their  naive 
simplicity  and  the  stammering  language  in  which  they 
told  the  story  of  Christian  faith  and  Christian  legends; 
but  I  know  perfectly  well  that  I  caught  my  enthusiasm 
ready-made  from  Lady  Margaret,  and  that  it  grew  out 
of  a  wish  not  to  fail  in  seeing  beauty  and  interest 
where  she  found  so  much  of  it.  I  was  often  asked  to 
accompany  her  to  the  galleries,  and  listened  in  ecstasy 
to  her  girlish  outbursts  of  pleasure,  and  so  learned  to 
anticipate  her  tastes  and  share  them. 


CHAPTER   XI 

COMPLICATIONS 

WE  remained  in  Naples  until  the  following  spring, 
when  Lord  Eliot,  seeming  to  recover  sufficiently  to 
travel  further  without  danger,  expressed  a  wish  to  see 
Florence,  and  we  all  went  there,  intending  to  stay 
some  weeks  to  indulge  Lady  Margaret's  taste  for  art. 

The  marquis  followed  us  in  a  few  days,  much  to 
the  displeasure  of  Lord  Eliot,  who,  in  spite  of  his 
cleverness  at  concealing  his  feelings,  could  not,  at  times, 
keep  from  betraying  himself  by  a  brusqueness  of  be- 
havior wholly  alien  to  him.  The  marquis,  on  the  (con- 
trary, was  almost  obsequious  in  his  efforts  to  please 
him,  and  one  afternoon,  unable  to  see  Lady  Margaret, 
who  was  suffering  from  a  headache,  insisted  on  accom- 
panying Lord  Eliot  and  myself  to  the  Pitti  Palace. 

His  insipid  comments  on  the  pictures  irritated  my 
lord  to  such  an  extent  that  he  seemed,  at  times,  to 
check  himself  in  an  outburst  of  anger,  and  hardly  no- 
ticed the  masterpieces  at  which  we  were  looking,  until 
we  stood  before  the  celebrated  Judith  and  Holofernes 
of  Cristofano  Allori. 

It  was  the  first  time  we  had  seen  it,  and  I  was  struck 
immediately  by  one  of  those  astounding  resemblances  as 
cruel  as  they  are  striking,  when  they  recall  those  once 
loved  whom  we  are  vainly  trying  to  forget.  Involun- 
tarily I  looked  at  my  young  master.  His  face  was  the 
color  of  ashes,  his  lips  trembled,  he  breathed  with  the 
greatest  difficulty.  But  there  was  another  who  was 
looking  with  admiration  at  this  beautiful  Judith  with 
the  fine  oval  contour  of  the  face  and  the  languid  eyes 
veiled  by  the  drooping  lids;  and  it  was  upon  his  face 

IOX 


102        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

that  my  lord's  eyes  were  fixed  with  an  expression  of 
horrible  anguish. 

"  Per  Baccho ! "  exclaimed  the  marquis.  "  How  is  it 
that  beauty  like  that  can  cross  two  centuries  and  re- 
appear almost  identical  in  a  French  woman!  I  assure 

you,  my  lord,  that  I  knew  at  Paris,  a  young  lady " 

"  Then  it  was  you ! " 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  hoarse  voice  stifled  with 
passion  in  which  my  lord  uttered  this  cry.  At  the  same 
time,  as  if  the  energy  of  his  soul  had  triumphed  once 
for  all  over  the  weakness  of  his  body,  he  rose  to  his 
feet,  his  hand  outstretched  as  if  to  smite.  But  it  was 
for  a  moment  only.  He  fell  back  with  a  sharp  cry. 
The  effort  had  killed  him! 

O  my  friend!  O  my  brave  heart!  Forgive  me  if 
these  shallow  words  seem  cold.  They  are  not,  I  am 
looking  at  them  through  my  tears.  I  have  never  ceased 
regretting  you,  never  ceased  loving  you,  and  I  never 
shall.  You  cannot  die  to  me,  you  cannot  grow  old — and 
I  have  said  that  you  should  not  all  die  while  I  lived; 
that  what  was  fine  and  strong  in  you  should  live  again 
in  me.  But  alas!  I  have  not  kept  the  promise.  It 
was  grafting  on  alien  stock,  and  I  have  borne  no  fruit. 
You  took  away  the  joy  and  zest  in  life  by  leaving  me; 
and  yet  I  feel  challenged  not  to  disappoint  you,  wholly. 
I  associate  you  with  all  that  is  noblest  in  human  char- 
acter, and  when  I  am  about  to  despair  of  men,  I  think 
of  you  and  my  faith  in  them  revives.  I  never  see 
anything  beautiful,  the  splendor  of  the  dawn,  or  of  the 
close  of  day,  that  I  do  not  wish  you  with  me.  I  never 
read  a  stirring  thought  or  hear  of  a  noble  deed  that  I 
do  not  remember  how  you  would  have  delighted  in  it; 
and  when  I  have  keenly  suffered,  I  have  found  some 
solace  in  the  thought  that  I,  too,  was  traversing  the 
valley  where  the  shadows  hung  black  and  threatening 
over  you,  and  so  could  understand  you  better,  love 
you  more.  O  my  friend,  I  know,  now,  how  you  suf- 
fered, I  know  what  a  crushing  grief  you  bore  alone. 


COMPLICATIONS  103 

Why  did  you  not  let  me  share  its  bitterness?  But  no 
— you  would  have  felt  it  a  crime  to  diffuse  your  grief; 
you  would  have  felt  it  an  unspeakable  baseness  to  re- 
veal anything  shameful  in  the  life  of  one  you  had  loved. 
The  secret  of  which  you  died,  so  far  as  you  were  con- 
cerned, died  with  you. 

But  this  woman,  Mile  C ,  I  felt  sure,  had  known 

all  the  intoxication  of  a  blind  passion,  and  later,  be- 
trayed and  abandoned,  may  have  fallen  into  an  irregu- 
lar and  shameful  life.  Perhaps,  at  first,  she  may  have 
designed  to  make  a  victim  of  Lord  Eliot,  but  ended  by 
yielding  to  the  better  influence  which  he  unconsciously 
exerted  over  all  who  knew  him. 

I  was  as  perfectly  satisfied  in  my  own  mind  of  the 
guilt  of  the  marquis  as  if  he  had  confessed  it  to  me: 
and  what  unspeakable  anguish  it  was  to  me  to  know 
that  Lady  Margaret  was  exposed  to  contamination  by 
his  daily  presence.  I  must  warn  her,  I  must  tell  her 
the  truth  at  all  hazards.  But  when?  How?  It  seemed 
an  exquisite  cruelty  to  add  to  the  deep  grief  she  was 
feeling  from  her  brother's  death,  the  humiliating  grief 
of  disillusionment.  But  to  keep  silence  was  crueler 
by  far,  for  it  was  the  happiness  of  all  her  future  life 
that  was  at  stake. 

Half  mad  with  grief  myself,  I  neither  slept  nor  ate. 
We  were  making  hurried  preparations  for  leaving  Flor- 
ence— Lord  Eliot's  body  was  being  embalmed,  and  we 
were  to  take  it  back  to  Scotland  with  us.  I  was  in  my 
room  late  in  the  afternoon — walking  up  and  down,  up 
and  down,  urged  involuntarily  to  relax,  by  this  restless 
motion,  the  agonizing  tension  of  my  nerves.  Finally  1 
approached  the  window  that  looked  out  upon  a  garden 
enclosed  with  high  stone  walls.  There  I  saw  my  lady 
in  close  conversation  with  the  marquis.  She  was  weep- 
ing bitterly,  concealing  her  face  with  her  handkerchief. 
He  was  bending  over  her,  and  I  saw  him  seize  her  hand 
and  carry  it  to  his  lips.  She  made  no  resistance,  and 
he  was  about  to  draw  her  head  down  upon  his  shoulder 


104        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

when  I  rushed  from  the  window  in  an  agony  of  wounded 
love,  and  jealousy  for  her  honor,  more  terrible   still. 

0  my  God !    My  God !    I  could  not  let  this  happen.    I 
must  save  her.    There  was  no  one  else  to  do  it.    I  was 
father,  brother,   outraged  lover  at  the  same  time.     I 
rushed  downstairs,  my  brain  on  fire,  through  the  lower 
corridor,  into  the  garden,  and  without  excusing  myself, 

1  confronted  the  marquis,  crying  out: 

"  How  dare  you  touch  that  lady's  hand,  you  infamous 
scoundrel !  Know  that  I  am  here  to  protect  her ;  and  if 
any  harm  comes  to  her  from  you,  I  shall  kill  you,  as 
I  would  crush  a  snake  under  my  heel." 

He  did  not  understand  English  well,  for  in  my  rage 
I  was  master  of  nothing  but  my  mother  tongue;  but 
he  could  not  have  misunderstood  my  frantic  gestures 
and  furious  expression.  However,  he  hadn't  time  to 
reply  to  me ;  because  my  lady,  drawing  herself  up  to  her 
full  height  and  looking  at  me  with  withering  scorn,  said : 

"  Have  you  gone  stark  mad  ?  What  do  you  mean  by 
this  insolent  intrusion  and  brutal  insult?  Get  down  on 
your  knees,  and  ask  pardon  of  this  gentleman,  at  once !  " 

"Ask  pardon  of  him?  Never!  never!  I  have  come 
to  save  you  from  him." 

She  paled,  and  her  face  twitched  convulsively.  O 
my  lady,  could  you  have  looked  into  my  heart  that 
day! 

"  What  do  you  know  of  this  man  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Nothing  and  everything.    Your  brother " 

She  held  up  her  hand  imperiously. 

"  Stop !  You  have  no  right  to  mention  his  name 
here.  He  is  not  here  to  defend  himself.  He  has  told 
you  nothing.  He  was  not  a  coward.  He  would  have 
spoken  to  me  had  he  known  anything  that  threatened 
my  happiness.  You  dare  not  say  that  he  spoke  to  you, 
who  was  silent  with  me.  Tell  me  that  lie,  if  you  dare." 

"  No,  my  lady,  he  never  spoke  to  me ! " 

"Who  then?" 

"  Nobody,  but  O  my  lady,  for  God's  sake  listen  to 
Tie." 


COMPLICATIONS  105 

"No,  I  will  not  listen  to  any  low  suspicions.  I  am 
not  a  coward,  either.  I  dare  be  just  even  when  it  pains 
me.  You  have  been  dear  to  me,  because  you  were  dear 
to  my  brother,  and  if  he  were  alive  you  would  never 
dare  to  outrage  and  insult  me  as  you  have  done  to-day 
in  the  midst  of  the  deepest  grief  of  my  life.  Leave  me, 
and  let  me  never  see  you  again.  Never,  do  you  under- 
stand? /  never  want  to  see  your  face  again." 

I  reeled  backwards.  I  thought  for  a  moment  I  was 
going  to  fall.  I  tried  to  speak,  but  she  silenced  me  at 
once  with  a  look  of  deep  contempt,  saying: 

"  Not  a  word !  away  with  you,  at  once !  "  I  ran  from 
the  garden  beside  myself  with  grief  and  humiliation;  I 
staggered  to  my  room,  threw  myself  across  the  bed  and 
wept  like  a  child,  and  like  the  child  that  I  was  yet;  but 
when  I  ceased  to  sob  at  nightfall,  I  was  a  man.  Grief 
had  baptized  me.  With  stinging  remorse,  I  recognized 
the  perfect  imbecility  of  what  I  had  done.  I  was  ab- 
solutely without  any  proof  of  the  truth  of  the  charge 
I  had  mentally  brought  against  the  marquis,  and  which 
I  was  prepared  to  make  openly  against  him.  It  all 
rested  on  that  acute  intuition  which  is  stronger  than 
reason  in  us,  and  which  no  reasoning  can  refute.  But 
I  was  stunned  with  the  blow  of  my  lady's  displeasure. 
The  love  for  her  made  me  a  coward  in  her  presence. 
I  was  struck  dumb  by  those  cruel  words,  "  /  never  want 
to  see  your  face  again ! "  O,  how  could  she  say  that  to 
me  in  this  bitter  hour  of  our  mutual  desolation!  How 
could  she  forget  my  long  years  of  faithful  service !  Was 
all  my  silent  adoration  nothing  to  her,  compared  with 
the  flattering  fondness  of  a  stranger? 

But  I  would  not  desist  yet  in  my  efforts  to  save  her. 
I  rushed  to  Richard  Glenn.  I  blurted  out  all  my  sus- 
picions, my  fears,  my  anguish,  in  a  voice  broken  with 
sobs.  I  begged  him  to  go  to  her,  not  to  try  to  re- 
store me  to  favor,  no,  that  was  hopeless ;  but  to  tell  her 
quietly,  reasonably,  just  what  had  occurred  before  that 
fatal  canvas,  that  she  might  judge  for  herself  what 
grounds  she  had  to  fear  that  the  man  she  loved  was  a 


106        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A  RECLUSE 

heartless  libertine.  "And  tell  her/'  I  added,  "that  I 
shall  obey  her  to  the  letter,  that  she  shall  never  see 
me  again;  but  that  I  leave  her  broken-hearted,  never 
again  to  know  happiness,  so  long  as  I  live." 

"  My  poor  boy !  my  poor  boy ! "  He  drew  my  head 
to  his  breast ;  he  stroked  my  hair  with  a  hand  as  tender 
as  my  mother's.  He  promised  to  do  all  that  I  asked; 
but  he  added  that  trite  old  adage  that  love  is  blind, 
and  said  that  to  him  it  was  not  quite  so  conclusive  as 
to  me,  that  the  marquis  was  guilty  of  any  illicit  relation 

with  Mile  C ;  that  in  the  morbid  state  of  his  feelings 

Lord  Eliot  might  have  drawn  unwarrantable  conclu- 
sions. Love  warps  the  judgment  tremendously ;  for  his 
part,  he  had  seen  the  Judith;  but,  unless  his  attention 
had  been  called  to  the  likeness,  he  would  not  have  re- 
marked its  resemblance  to  Mile  C .  But  he  could  quite 

understand  the  situation.  As  for  myself,  if  I  wished  to 
go  back  to  Scotland. — Here  I  interrupted  him,  passion- 
ately, to  say  that  I  could  never  consent  to  go  back  home  ' 
disgraced,  or  to  run  the  risk  of  being  seen  by  one  to 
whom  I  had  become  odious.  No,  the  world  itself 
seemed  too  small  to  hold  us  both,  and  I  wished  that 
I  was  lying  stark  and  cold  beside  my  dead  friend. 

He  did  not  try  to  reason  with  me ;  he  knew  the  human 
heart  too  well;  but  he  bade  me  give  way  to  my  grief 
and  empty  my  heart  of  all  its  bitterness ;  and  then,  when 
the  first  paroxysm  was  over,  he  held  my  hand  firmly 
in  his,  and  with  a  voice  that  trembled,  and  eyes  that 
were  wet  with  tears,  as  they  looked  into  mine,  he  told 
me  that  in  his  solitary  life  I  had  been  as  a  son  to 
him,  that  he  had  tried  to  put  something  of  himself 
into  my  young  heart  that  it  might  live  when  he  himself 
was  dust  and  ashes;  and  he  implored  me  not  to  dis- 
appoint him.  Lord  Eliot's  death  had  been  a  terrible 
blow,  an  unforgettable  grief  to  him;  but  he  had  had 
one  consolation  in  the  midst  of  it,  I  had  been  spared  to 
him.  All  his  life-work  had  not  been  lost. 

I  looked  at  the  thin  face,  worn  with  grief,  sharp- 


COMPLICATIONS  107 

ened  with  intellect.  How  was  it  that  I  had  not  seen 
that  he,  too,  suffered?  The  egotism  of  my  grief  melted 
into  sympathy  for  the  moment.  I  pressed  my  hot  lips 
to  his  thin  cheek.  I  promised  him  to  be  a  man.  I 
thanked  him  warmly  for  all  that  he  had  done  for  me, 
and  bade  him  good-by,  knowing  that  I  was  never  to  see 
him  again. 

Since  coming  abroad  I  had  received  a  regular  salary, 
but  as  I  was  able  to  save  the  greater  part  of  it,  I  had 
sent  it  home  to  my  mother.  Fortunately,  I  had  not  yet 
sent  off  my  last  allowance,  and  it  was  quite  enough,  with 
a  little  economy,  to  see  me  safely  to  America. 

I  knew  that  a  merchant  ship  set  out  nearly  every 
week  from  Naples  to  New  York,  and  I  resolved  to  em- 
bark by  the  first  one  that  sailed.  I  made  a  little  pack- 
age of  my  clothes,  putting  among  them  a  small  volume 
of  Horace  that  my  young  master  and  I  had  often  read 
together.  My  tears  fell  anew,  as  I  strapped  it  into  my 
bundle,  and  there  came  over  me  that  fierce  hunger  to 
see  him  once  more,  which  has  so  often  cruelly  assailed 
me. 

On  leaving  the  house,  I  made  no  effort  to  hire  a  car- 
riage; it  seemed  to  me  impossible  to  endure  the  strain 
of  sitting  still  in  a  close  carriage  alone  with  my  wretched- 
ness. I  felt  the  need  of  benumbing  my  body,  or  of 
fatiguing  it  with  walking,  and  so,  if  possible,  dulling, 
too,  the  torture  of  my  mind. 

The  night  was  superb;  one  of  those  tranquil,  cloud- 
less nights  when  the  moon  is  at  her  full,  and  lights  up 
the  landscape  almost  with  the  distinctness  of  day.  But 
this  serene  sky  and  quiet  loveliness  of  nature  seemed 
to  mock  my  grief.  I  would  have  given  all  I  possessed 
for  a  storm  to  drench  me  to  the  skin,  deafen  my  ears 
with  its  thunder,  and  threaten  me  with  vivid  flashes  of 
lightning.  Ah!  Nature  was  kind,  not  cruel,  to  Lear, 
when  she  loosed  her  winds  and  rains  to  beat  against 
him.  I  walked  all  night  long,  without  once  stopping, 
for  when  I  would  have  flagged,  that  cruel  memory  came 


io8        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

like  a  scourge  to  whip  me  into  line.  No  one  is  a  philos- 
opher until  after  the  tempest  and  in  retrospect;  during 
the  storm,  he  is  a  man.  And  I  was  very  much  of  a 
man  that  night  and  for  many  and  many  a  day  after. 
To  be  sure  I  did  all  that  I  could  to  distract  myself, 
but  in  everything  that  I  did  and  in  everything  that  I 
said,  I  was  conscious  of  this  dark  background  of  sorrow. 
It  was  my  last  thought  when  I  fell  asleep,  my  first 
thought  when  I  awoke.  But  it  is  very  remarkable  that 
it  never  once  appeared  in  my  dreams.  There  is  a  gen- 
erally received  idea  that  our  dreams  are  the  shadowy  re- 
productions of  our  principal  thoughts.  But  it- has  never 
happened  to  me  to  dream  of  what  has  occupied  me  the 
most.  And  that  has  been  a  great  comfort  to  me. 

I  did  not  make  the  entire  journey  between  Florence 
and  Naples  on  foot ;  but  I  was  at  the  end  of  my  strength 
before  I  took  a  carriage.  My  feet  were  badly  bruised 
and  swollen,  my  whole  body  ached  and  my  head  was 
dizzy  with  extreme  fatigue.  There  were  hours  when  the 
courage  to  live  almost  forsook  me,  and  I  think  if  I 
had  not  found  a  ship  at  Naples  ready  to  sail,  it  would 
have  gone  hard  with  me. 

At  any  other  time  I  would  have  been  extremely  in- 
terested in  the  crowds  of  emigrants  that  filled  the  ship. 
But  a  great  passion,  either  of  grief  or  joy,  makes 
egotists  of  us,  shuts  us  up  in  the  narrow  circle  of  our 
own  emotions,  blinding  us  to  everything  outside  of  its 
fatal  circumference.  I  looked  at  this  eager,  restless 
crowd  huddled  on  the  quay  with  perfect  indifference, 
although  it  was  to  furnish  me  with  daily  companions  in 
a  long  voyage. 


CHAPTER  XII 

EN    ROUTE  FOR  AMERICA 

I  HAVE  often  asked  myself  since,  whether  I  would 
have  undertaken  the  voyage  if  I  could  have  anticipated 
all  the  misery  of  that  two  months'  sea-trip.  I  had  not 
foreseen  one  of  the  little  details  of  equipment  so  neces- 
sary to  ensure  as  much  comfort  and  convenience  as 
possible,  which  was  little  enough  at  the  best.  I  had  no 
idea  of  the  condition  of  the  emigrants  on  one  of  these 
great  vessels,  where  I  found  we  were  heaped  together 
confusedly,  men  and  women,  old  and  young,  like  so 
many  cattle.  All  that  is  changed  now.  Foreign  gov- 
ernments think  enough  of  their  citizens  to  assure  them 
a  passage  across  the  ocean  in  which,  at  any  rate,  the 
laws  of  decency  shall  be  observed;  but  at  that  time 
the  only  concern  that  any  one  had  about  them  was  to 
get  them  across,  no  matter  how. 

My  exceptional  education  had  not  at  all  decreased 
my  sympathy  with  the  poor  among  whom  I  always 
classed  myself;  but  every  sentiment  of  delicacy  and 
modesty  in  me  revolted  at  the  total  impossibility  of  being 
alone  day  or  night.  Then,  too,  I  had  some  very  de- 
cided prejudices  in  favor  of  cleanliness,  and  the  filthy 
rags  with  which  my  companions  tried  to  Cover  their 
nakedness,  not  always  succeeding,  exhaled  a  nauseous 
odor  of  reeking  bodies  unfamiliar  with  soap  and  water 
from  the  day  of  their  birth — that  turned  me  deathly 
sick.  I  would  have  been  ashamed  of  myself  had  I 
been  effeminate  enough  to  recoil  before  hunger,  cold, 
fatigue  or  hard  work;  but  I  should  have  had  to  be  a 
saint  not  to  recoil  before  what  makes  the  hideous  ug- 
liness of  poverty— dirt  and  indecency.  My  clothes,  my; 

109 


no  '     THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

manner,  my  taciturnity  and  my  foreign  birth,  quickly 
created  a  prejudice  against  me  that  might  have  increased 
to  real  hostility,  had  I  not  fallen  very  ill  the  second 
day  out.  The  stench  and  stifling  heat  of  my  first  night 
on  board  had  finished  me.  I  could  not  lift  my  head,  I 
shivered  and  burned,  alternately,  in  a  state  of  inde- 
scribable pain  and  nausea.  This  atrocious  suffering 
made  my  companions  forgive  me  for  the  time  for  being 
socially  their  superior,  and  as  I  accepted  their  clumsy 
efforts  at  relief  with  expressions  of  gratitude,  they  soon 
vied  with  each  other  as  to  who  should  render  me  a  serv- 
ice; and  I  learned  to  recognize,  under  all  their  rags  and 
filth,  a  warm  spontaneous  kindness  that  augured  well 
for  their  capacity  for  improvement  in  the  free  country 
to  which  they  were  going.  When  I  grew  better,  I  be- 
gan to  teach  them  English,  which  they  were  all  eager 
to  learn;  and  my  lessons  lasted,  not  only  from  dawn  till 
nightfall,  but  during  every  moment  I  was  awake.  This 
ceaseless  occupation  was  all  that  made  the  voyage  sup- 
portable to  me,  half  effacing,  for  the  time  at  least,  the 
memory  of  my  sufferings.  And  the  teaching  came  back 
to  me  in  many  a  forcible  lesson  of  patience  and  en- 
durance; and  in  many  an  expression  of  impulsive  love 
from  these  sunny-hearted  children  of  the  South,  whom 
age  never  touches,  except  on  the  surface.  They  made 
the  very  best  of  their  miserable  surroundings.  They 
laughed,  they  played,  they  sang,  they  quarreled,  and 
made  up  again.  They  decked  themselves  out  on  Sun- 
days and  feast  days  with  bits  of  brilliant  color  and  bright, 
cheap  jewels.  They  had  their  little  romances  in  various 
corners  'of  this  little  motley  ship-world,  and  even  I, 
morose,  wretched,  heart-hungry  to  famishing,  had  my 
little  romance,  too,  and  was  envied  for  my  luck,  chided 
for  my  coldness,  and  but  for  my  linguistic  services, 
might  have  fared  badly  at  the  hands  of  my  jealous 
rivals. 

Chance  had  placed  near  me  in  the  miserable  holes 
where  we  were  obliged  to  pass  the  night  together,  a 


EN   ROUTE   FOR  AMERICA  in 

young  girl  of  sixteen,  one  of  those  brown  beauties  to  be 
found  nowhere  else  but  in  the  south  of  Italy  and  in 
Spain.  She  had  a  great  quantity  of  glossy,  black  hair, 
never  in  order,  yet  never  appearing  untidy,  and  dark 
eyes  with  a  touching  expression  of  melancholy,  When 
her  face  was  in  repose,  but  full  of  animation  when  she 
laughed.  For  the  rest,  a  girl  who  had  matured  early 
under  the  sunny  skies  of  Italy,  but  who  had  laughed 
at  love,  for  the  very  reason  that  love  came  running 
after  her  on  every  side. 

Now,  for  me,  even  the  proximity  of  so  beautiful  a 
girl  couldn't  lessen  the  horror  of  that  first  night  on 
the  ship.  To  feel  around  me  all  these  moist,  warm 
bodies ;  to  breathe  the  fetid  air  from  these  hundreds 
of  mouths,  old  and  young,  healthy  and  diseased;  to 
hear  the  groans,  and  hiccoughs,  snores  and  curses,  and 
various  forms  of  wailing  that  issued  from  them,  was 
for  me  the  realization  of  Dante's  most  horrible  visions. 
My  imagination  increased  the  horrors  of  it  to  such  an 
extent  that  I  believe  I  would  have  thrown  myself  into 
the  sea  to  escape  it,  had  I  not  prevailed  upon  the 
surgeon  to  grant  me  the  privilege  of  sleeping  on  the 
open  deck. 

But  I  was  so  poorly  provided  for  the  voyage,  hav- 
ing nothing  with  me  but  a  change  of  clothing,  that  I 
would  have  suffered  from  the  cold  had  it  not  been 
for  the  generosity  of  my  companions,  who  furnished 
me  with  blankets  and  a  straw  pillow.  But  to  no  one 
was  I  indebted  so  much  as  to  the  beautiful  young 
Anita,  who  chose  to  be  my  nurse.  During  my  long 
illness  of  three  weeks,  she  never  left  me,  night  or  day. 
How  many  times  I  awoke  during  the  nights  to  find  my 
head  reclining  on  her  breast,  her  arms  around  my  neck, 
I  cannot  tell.  I  remonstrated  with  her.  I  was  even 
peevish  and  harsh.  I  opposed  my  cold  rules  of  pro- 
priety to  the  warm  instincts  of  her  heart,  but  all  in  vain. 
She  covered  me  with  kisses;  she  called  me  her  little 
English  icicle  whom  she  meant  to  thaw  back  to  life, 


112        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

and  I  finished  like  a  coward  by  letting  her  have  her 
way,  and  accepted  passively  all  the  riches  of  this  young 
heart,  saying  vaguely  to  myself  that  to  be  irresponsive 
is  a  crime.  But  I  told  her  no  lies.  She  knew  well 
that  I  did  not  love  her.  One  night,  near  the  end  of 
the  voyage,  we  were  sitting  together  on  the  deck;  the 
night  was  raw  and  misty,  and  we  had  thrown  a  heavy 
blanket  about  our  shoulders.  I  felt  her  body  shivering 
against  mine,  and  I  said: 

"Are  you  cold,  Nita?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  and  her  teeth  chattered,  and 
she  huddled  closer  to  me.  I  put  my  arm  about  her 
and  drew  the  blanket  over  her  head. 

"  There,  is  that  better  ?  Never  mind,  there  won't 
be  many  more  nights  of  this.  We'll  soon  be  in  Amer- 
ica. They  expect  to  sight  land  Thursday  morning." 

"Oh  don't!  don't!  don't!  I  can't  bear  to  hear  you 
say  it  like  that,"  and  she  put  her  hand  over  my  mouth. 
"  I  wish  we  would  never  sight  land.  I  wish  we  could 
sail  on  forever  and  ever,  you  and  I,  like  this.  Oh,  why 
can't  you  love  me?  But  I  know  very  well  why.  There 
is  some  one  else  whom  you  love.  You  are  running 
away  from  her,  but  you  can't  do  it,  she  is  still  there, 
there," — and  she  placed  her  hand  on  my  heart — "  and 
there  is  no  place  for  me.  Oh,  I  could  kill  her, 
kill  her  for  having  taken  my  place.  Forget  her. 
Can't  you  do  it?  She  does  not  know  how  to  love 
as  I  do."  She  seized  my  head  with  her  two  hands,  and 
I  felt  her  moist,  warm  lips  devour  my  face  with  furious 
kisses.  For  a  moment  I  was  carried  away  by  the  ardor 
of  her  passion  and  a  terrible  temptation  assailed  me; 
but  something  stronger  yet  checked  my  impulse.  I 
tore  myself  from  her,  and  grasping  her  two  trembling 
hands  that  felt  like  ice  between  my  own,  I  told  her 
that  she  had  spoken  the  truth.  I  did  love  another. 
She  bounded  away  from  me  with  a  low,  moaning  cry, 
and,  trembling  like  a  leaf,  I  sat  down  again,  and  buried 
my  burning  face  in  my  hands.  Shall  I  confess  all  the 


EN   ROUTE   FOR  AMERICA  113 

truth?  I  had  no  joy  in  my  victory  over  myself,  and 
for  a  moment  felt  that  I  had  committed  a  crime  against 
nature. 

Three  days  afterwards  we  sighted  the  long  bar  of 
Sandy  Hook,  glistening  like  gold  in  the  morning  sun- 
light. We  were  wild  with  joy,  weeping,  shouting,  jost- 
ling each  other,  waving  handkerchiefs,  caps,  shawls, 
bits  of  rags,  mothers  holding  their  children  high  in  their 
arms,  and  shouting  at  the  top  of  their  voices:  "La 
terra!  La  terra!"  How  many  gilded  hopes,  how  many 
visions  of  an  earthly  paradise  were  summed  up  in  that 
shining  strip  of  yellow  sand,  against  the  blue  horizon. 
Say  what  we  will  of  the  bitterness  of  life,  it  has  one 
beautiful  winged  thing,  and  that  is  hope.  But  as  for 
me,  my  heart  was  too  sore,  yet,  to  be  comforted  by 
hope.  An  inexpressible  sadness  seized  me,  in  the  midst 
of  all  this  excited  joy.  A  feeling  of  terrible  solitude, 
a  vague  horror  of  the  unknown  destiny  awaiting  me 
there,  an  impatience  to  confront  it  and  know  its  worst, 
was  all  that  yellow  shore  icould  offer  me.  While  I 
looked  at  it,  I  felt  my  eyes  dimming  and  my  throat 
aching  with  suppressed  sobs.  Suddenly  a  hand  touched 
mine.  I  turned  quickly  and  saw  Nita  beside  me,  her 
pretty  face  bathed  in  tears.  I  had  not  seen  her,  to 
speak  to,  since  that  night  that  I  had  repelled  her  love. 

"  And  you  would  leave  me,"  she  said,  "  without  even 
saying  good-by  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  I  answered,  bending  over  her  and  taking 
her  hand  in  mine.  "  I  owe  too  much  to  all  your  kind- 
ness to  me,  ever  to  forget  you,  or  to  be  willing  to  leave 
you  without  thanking  you  again  with  all  my  heart." 

Her  face  brightened,  as  if  the  sun  had  suddenly  shone 
upon  it. 

"  Oh,  take  me  with  you,"  she  implored.  "  Don't  leave 
me,  don't  leave  me,  I  beg  of  you.  I  ask  nothing  at  all 
of  you,  but  leave  to  love  you.  I  will  be  your  faithful 
servant ;  I  shan't  even  ask  you  to  caress  me.  I  only 
want  to  hear  your  voice,  to  see  you  from  time  to  time. 


114        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

Haven't  you  missed  me  just  a  little  all  these  three  days1 
They  have  seemed  a  thousand  years  to  me.  Oh,  lov$ 
me  just  a  little,  just  a  little."  She  hid  her  face  against 
my  breast,  weeping  like  a  child.  My  heart  ached  with 
sympathy,  but  not  with  love.  What  a  capricious  thing 
is  the  human  heart!  Thirsting  for  love,  and  receiving 
it  in  full  measure,  I  could  not  quench  my  thirst,  for 
disdain  of  the  cup  in  which  it  was  offered  me.  There 
are  men  whose  heart  is  so  unstable  that  they  can  quit 
a  beloved  woman  with  their  lips  still  warm  with  her 
kisses,  and  fly  to  the  arms  of  another.  I  am  not  of 
that  stamp.  My  affections  have  always  had  a  singular 
tenacity.  All  my  being  was  rooted  elsewhere.  I  could 
not  live  in  any  other  soil. 

But  strange  revenge  of  time!  more  than  any  other 
woman,  she  has  come  back  to  my  mind  during  the  long 
years  of  our  separation;  and  it  may  be  only  another 
form  of  vulgar  self-love  and  not  gratitude,  that  recalls 
her;  but  I  have  a  singular  pleasure  in  her  memory. 
Probably  she  has  not  thought  of  me  half  so  often. 
Violent  loves,  like  violent  storms,  die  out  quickly,  and 
leave  a  calm  after  them;  and,  then,  she  was  not  one  to 
love  but  once.  Very  likely,  she  is  now  a  happy  wife 
and  mother,  guarding  in  her  memory  only  a  half-effaced 
souvenir  of  her  early  love;  while  with  me,  her  memory 
is  always  fresh  and  green ;  and  when  I  am  on  the  point 
of  complaining  of  the  aridness  of  my  life,  I  think  of 
her,  and  feel  her  warm  cheek  touching  mine — a  youth- 
ful vision  ever  beautiful,  ever  young. 

But  when  I  met  her  I  had  just  been  driven  out  of 
paradise.  I  had  seen  heaven,  and  could  not  content  my- 
self with  earth.  That  is  the  reason,  too,  that  I  was 
predestined  to  be  unhappy  in  America.  There  was  not 
one  of  these  poor,  ignorant,  half-clothed  emigrants  who 
was  not  fitter  than  I  to  find  a  place  that  suited  him. 
My  father  had  been  quite  right  in  his  fears  about  me. 
My  education  had  prepared  me  for  leisure  and  luxury. 
I  had  acquired  artificial  tastes  which  nothing  but  an  old 


"5 

and  cultured  civilization  could  satisfy.  I  had  high  ideals 
towards  which  I  aspired  with  all  the  ardor  of  youth 
and  sincere  faith;  and  I  had  absolutely  no  acquaintance 
with  vulgar  realities.  Of  course  I  was  prepared  to  find 
striking  contradictions  in  this  land  that  proudly  boasted 
itself  the  land  of  the  brave  and  the  free,  and  held 
thousands  of  its  fellow-men  enchained  in  slavery.  I 
expected  a  certain  crudity  of  manners  in  a  new  coun- 
try, chiefly  bent  on  making  use  of  its  natural  re- 
sources. I  expected  a  general  recognition  of  merit 
based  only  on  the  capacity  for  "  getting  on  in  the  world," 
which  in  its  turn  means  getting  plenty  to  eat,  and  drink, 
and  wear,  and  spend.  But  I  was  not  at  all  prepared  to 
find  everywhere  an  inordinate  pride,  or  to  speak  more 
properly,  a  colossal  provincialism,  so  naive  that  it  could 
swallow  the  grossest  flattery  without  suspicion  that  it 
was  anything  but  the  truth,  and  could  not  bear  the 
slightest  criticism  without  falling  into  a  childish  rage. 
Everything,  from  the  country  itself  to  a  Cross-road  to- 
bacco shop,  was  the  "  greatest  in  the  world  " ;  and  if  a 
stranger  who  had  really  seen  something  of  the  world 
ventured  to  demur,  he  was  set  down  as  an  ignoramus 
filled  with  envy  at  what  he  saw,  or  unceremoniously 

asked,  why  in  h he  didn't  stay  in  his  own  country. 

I  also  found  a  freedom  of  manners  running  into  rude- 
ness and  insolence;  a  stubborn  prejudice  against  foreign 
nations,  especially  against  the  mother  country  from 
whence  came  its  best  traditions;  and  a  strange  con- 
tempt for  all  the  conventionalities  that  facilitate  social 
intercourse,  and  make  it  agreeable,  accompanied  by  a 
perverse  judgment  in  favor  of  coarseness  and  bluntness, 
under  the  name  of  democracy.  But  this  is  only  another 
instance  of  the  effort  of  self-love  to  save  its  pride  by 
decrying  what  it  hasn't,  after  the  fashion  of  the  tailless 
fox  who  insisted  that  all  his  neighbors  should  cut  off 
their  tails,  because  he  had  lost  his  own.  Just  as  soon 
as  facilities  for  foreign  travel  and  the  means  of  general 
culture  increase  the  acquaintance  with  social  proprieties- 


Ii6        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A  RECLUSE 

they  will  be  practiced  here  as  elsewhere;  and,  perhaps, 
for  a  time,  with  exaggerated  fastidiousness.  I  still 
remember  my  amazement  at  the  question  of  a  vener- 
able old  lady,  who  had  been  educated  in  a  boarding- 
school,  as  to  which  was  the  proper  way  to  fold  one's 
arms.  She  had  been  taught,  she  said,  to  spread  the 
hand  over  the  elbows,  but  she  had  lately  observed  that 
a  great  many  people  concealed  one  hand,  and  partly 
displayed  the  other,  in  folding  the  arms. 

But  at  present  the  great  majority  are  very  far  from 
any  solicitude  concerning  their  manners. 

Indeed,  the  general  respect  for  the  want  of  good 
manners  is  carried  so  far  in  certain  parts  of  the  coun- 
try, that  signs  of  personal  negligence  among  men  are 
admiringly  quoted  as  an  indication  of  vigorous  demo- 
cratic manliness;  and  I  have  heard  of  a  member  of  the 
national  legislature  who  owed  his  popularity  entirely 
to  the  fact  that  he  always  wore  a  slouch  hat,  his  trousers 
tucked  into  his  boot-tops,  and  never  in  his  life  had 
worn  a  dress-coat ;  and  I  myself,  at  this  writing  actually 
know  a  really  clever  man,  college-bred,  who  couldn't 
be  elected  in  his  district  for  an  office,  which  he  was 
eminently  qualified  to  fill,  because  the  report  was  cir- 
culated that  he  wore  silk  stockings;  and  the  phrase 
"  silk-stocking  aristocracy  "  was  raised  as  a  damaging 
party-cry  for  the  political  campaign  of  that  year. 

But  this  did  not  shock  me  so  much  as  it  seemed  puerile 
and  ridiculous,  a  mark  of  the  infancy  of  a  nation  that 
lacks  the  wholesome  restraining  influence  of  a  venerable 
past.  A  citizen  of  the  old  world  has  inherited  noble 
traditions  that  keep  him  in  a  proper  state  of  modesty, 
if  he  has  any  sense  at  all.  When  his  pride  in  himself 
would  grow  over-weening,  history,  art,  architecture,1 
literature,  are  all  there,  to  check  him  with  the  memory 
of  his  fathers.  He  recognizes  in  them  a  generous 
rivalry,  for  they  are  present  only  as  a  stimulus ;  he  goes 
to  school  to  them,  as  it  were,  and  even  should  he  sur- 
"ass  them,  he  does  not  reverence  them  the  less;  he 


EN   ROUTE   FOR   AMERICA  117 

knows  that  they  laid  the  stepping  stones  by  which  he 
climbed  a  little  higher. 

The  citizens  of  the  U.  S.,  on  the  contrary,  were  or- 
phans at  an  early  age.  They  have  brought  up  them- 
selves, and,  like  self-made  men,  are  proud  of  the  fact. 
Their  success  still  smells  of  varnish.  But  the  time  will 
come  when  they  will  be  so  accustomed  to  prosperity 
and  the  extent  of  their  territory,  that  they  will  take  it 
quite  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  will  not  care  to  hear 
their  boots  squeak,  to  show  that  they  are  new.  And 
when  that  time  comes,  neither  will  they  be  any  longer 
embarrassed  by  courtesy  as  a  badge  of  distinction,  but 
will  have  learned  to  be  courteous  themselves.  And 
if  that  courtesy  is  a  genuine  outgrowth  of  char- 
acter, and  not  a  mere  whitewash,  there  will  be  a 
keener  sense  of  honor  prevalent,  solid  enough  to  resist 
the  vulgar  temptations  of  commercial  life.  Truth  and 
honesty  will  be  in  repute  again  and  not  regarded,  as 
at  present,  as  old-fashioned  prejudices  incompatible 
with  progress.  I  had  come  from  the  society  of  men  to 
whom  the  word  liar  wasn't  simply  a  term  of  reproach, 
but  a  deadly  insult,  as  implying  the  most  sneaking  form 
of  cowardice.  I  found  it  in  high  repute  on  this  side  of 
the  water,  and  again  and  again  heard  young  men  boast 
of  the  lies  which  they  had  told  to  secure  trade,  as  if  it 
required  a  superior  degree  of  intellectual  acuteness  to 
!ie  unblushingly.  In  short,  victimizing  other  people 
within  the  pale  of  the  law  passed  for  "  smartness,"  and 
I  wasn't  long  in  falling  into  the  list  of  victims,  because 
I  had  had  no  experience  except  with  honest  people. 

I  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  something  to  do,  because 
I  was  ready  to  do  anything,  no  matter  what — were  it 
only  sweeping  the  streets.  My  experience  on  board 
ship  had  shown  me  the  superiority  of  the  spirit  of  the 
acceptance  of  unavoidable  misery  over  that  of  fas- 
tidiousness ;  and  I  was  no  longer  inclined  to  revolt  use- 
lessly. I  began  with  loading  vessels  on  the  quay,  hard 
work,  at  which  I  literally  earned  my  bread  in  the  sweat 


n8        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

of  my  brow,  as  later  by  breaking  stone  on  the  road. 
Unaccustomed  to  physical  labor,  I  trembled  and  stag- 
gered under  loads  that  seemed  to  crush  my  back  and 
shoulders.  My  uncalloused  hands  bled,  but  I  perse- 
vered, sustained  by  a  fire  within  me  that  had  not  yet 
had  time  to  cool.  I  remembered  my  father's  cold  con- 
tempt for  weakness,  to  which  was  now  added  a  sullen 
anger  that  refused  to  pardon  me  for  the  course  which 
I  had  taken.  I  had  written  to  my  mother  as  soon  as 
I  had  arrived  in  America.  I  had  said  nothing  of  the 
cause  of  my  sudden  departure  from  Italy;  I  had  spoken 
but  briefly  of  that  which  touched  me  most,  the  death  of 
the  young  lord,  and  added  that  it  seemed  to  me  an  in- 
dication that  I  was  henceforth  to  be  thrown  upon  my 
own  resources,  and  that  I  hoped  to  show  that  my  educa- 
tion had  not  made  a  woman  of  me.  I  duly  received  a 
reply  to  this  letter  written  by  my  sister,  married  three 
years  before,  and  now  living  in  Glasgow  with  her  little 
daughter  and  her  husband.  She  told  me  that  my  letter 
had  broken  my  mother's  heart;  that  my  father  had  in- 
terpreted it  as  a  cowardly  abandonment  of  my  lord's 
family  in  their  need,  and  a  cold  indifference  to  my  own 
family,  and  was  so  enraged  that  he  forbade  my  mother 
to  write  to  me,  and  declared  that  my  name  should 
never  be  mentioned  in  his  presence  again.  But  she 
added  for  her  own  part,  that  neither  she  nor  my  mother 
had  lost  faith  in  me;  that  they  believed  I  had  had  some 
good  reason  for  the  action  I  had  taken  and  that  if  I 
continued  to  write  I  must  send  the  letters  to  her,  and 
she  would  see  that  my  mother  was  kept  informed  about 
me.  I  did  not  reply  to  this  letter,  I  felt  utterly  alone 
in  the  world,  and  to  the  immense  bitterness  of  my  grief, 
was  added  the  vulgar  sordidness  of  my  surroundings. 
A  gloomy  and  defiant  despair  seized  me;  a  dull  rage 
without  a  definite  object;  and  although  disgusted  with 
the  coarse  and  brutal  distractions  of  my  companions,  I 
did  for  a  time  plunge  into  them,  to  try  in  vain  to  forget 
that  the  world  had  ever  seemed  beautiful  to  me,  and  life 


EN   ROUTE  FOR  AMERICA  119 

worth  living.  But  I  could  not  persist  in  this  course  of 
low  dissipation.  Every  instinct  in  me  revolted,  and 
called  me  back  to  decency.  I  found  employment  in  a 
large  dry-goods  house.  My  diligence  and  docility  rapidly 
advanced  me.  I  gained  the  confidence  of  my  employer 
and  was  sometimes  invited  to  his  house  to  take  tea 
with  his  family.  He  was  a  self-made  man  of  a  great 
deal  of  shrewdness  and  natural  kindness.  Among  my 
fellow-employees  I  found  an  ambitious  young  man  about 
my  own  age,  who  interested  me.  He  told  me  there  was 
a  French  strain  in  his  blood  and  that  he  was  eager  to 
learn  the  language.  I  offered  to  teach  him  all  that  I 
knew,  and  we  spent  three  or  four  evenings  of  each  week 
together  for  that  purpose.  He  seemed  to  be  really  at- 
tached to  me,  and,  for  my  part,  in  the  barrenness  of 
my  life,  at  present,  he  was  the  one  bright  spot.  I 
looked  forward  with  eagerness  to  the  end  of  the  day, 
when  we  could  be  together.  We  shared  our  thoughts, 
and,  though  I  never  told  him  the  story  of  my  life,  he 
knew  in  a  general  way  that  I  had  received  exceptional 
advantages  and  he  called  himself  a  lucky  dog  in  getting 
acquainted  with  me,  saying  that  I  was  as  valuable  to 
him  as  a  university  course. 

"  I  used  to  waste  a  lot  of  time  with  silly  girls  before 
I  knew  you,"  he  said  to  me  one  night.  "But  some- 
how, after  a  fine  talk  with  you,  I  can't  stand  gabbling 
with  a  raw  girl  who  hasn't  two  ideas  in  her  head  outside 
of  making  herself  pretty  to  look  at." 

One  day  about  a  year  later  he  came  to  me  in  a  great 
deal  of  excitement,  saying:  "George,  if  I  had  $250 
to  start  me  off,  I  could  be  rich  inside  of  a  few  years. 
I've  got  a  new  scheme  that  nobody  else  has  ever  thought 
of."  With  that,  he  unfolded  his  scheme,  and  concluded 
by  asking  me  if  I  could  lend  him  the  money  at  six 
per  cent.  Now,  I  hadn't  saved  anything  yet;  but  I  was 
so  anxious  to  serve  him  as  a  friend,  that  I  promised  to 
lend  him  the  amount  by  borrowing  it  for  him  from  my 
employer.  He  thanked  me  effusively,  assured  me  that 


120        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

before  the  year  was  out  I  should  be  repaid.  I  went 
with  a  burning  face  to  my  employer  to  ask  a  favor  for 
my  friend  that  I  would  not  have  asked  for  myself,  for 
all  the  world,  and  had  no  difficulty  in  getting  the  money. 
I  never  shall  forget  the  pride  with  which  I  handed 
him  the  sum  which,  to  the  poverty  of  both  of  us,  seemed 
so  considerable,  and  he  seemed  very  grateful  for  it.  I 
assured  him  that  if  it  had  been  my  own  he  should  have 
had  it  as  a  friendly  loan  without  interest,  and  that  I 
would  pay  it  off  as  soon  as  possible,  so  that  he  needn't 
be  burdened  with  the  interest.  He  looked  at  me  a  mo- 
ment, then  laughed,  saying :  "  George,  you're  easy !  " 
I  didn't  understand  the  full  extent  of  the  term;  but  if 
being  easy  meant  that  it  was  a  genuine  pleasure  for  me 
to  inconvenience  myself  for  my  friends,  then  I  really  was 
very  "  easy."  He  left  the  city  and  I  have  never  seen 
him  since. 

By  private  tutoring  during  my  leisure  hours,  which 
furnished  an  addition  to  my  meager  salary,  and  the 
strictest  economy,  I  was  able  to  pay  off  the  note  and 
interest  at  the  close  of  a  half  year;  but  I  had  so  far 
lowered  my  vitality  by  over-work,  cheap  food,  and  men- 
tal depression,  that  I  fell  ill  of  a  fever,  and  was  sent 
to  a  hospital,  where,  for  six  weeks,  I  languished  between 
life  and  death.  I  left  the  hospital  in  debt  for  fees,  and 
too  feeble  to  resume  work,  at  once.  I  wrote  to  my 
friend,  asking  him  for  a  remittance  of  what  he  owed 
me,  explaining  my  situation  to  him.  He  wrote  me  that 
he  was  sorry,  but  he  had  just  got  married,  and  needed 
all  his  money  to  start  housekeeping.  Later,  if  he  saw 
his  way  clear,  he  would  send  me  some  money. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

UNDER    THE    ROD 

I  READ  the  letter  with  a  sinking  of  the  heart  that  af- 
fected me  like  a  physical  blow.  I  trembled  and  turned 
faint.  I  could  ill  afford  to  lose  the  money;  but  I  was 
young  and  impressionable,  and  I  could  far  less  afford 
to  lose  my  faith  in  humanity,  for  it  was  the  only  capital 
that  I  had,  and  he  had  made  me  bankrupt!  I  had 
leaned  on  his  friendship,  and  found  it  rotten  straw.  He 
had  deserted  me  in  the  hour  of  my  greatest  need.  I 
could  no  longer  be  useful  to  him,  and  common  decency 
had  no  power  over  him  to  replace  the  want  of  grati- 
tude and  honor.  I  can  hardly  forgive  myself,  now, 
for  the  waste  of  pain  which  this  disillusionment  cost 
me.  But  my  world  was  a  very  narrow  one  at  that  time. 
I  had  not  yet  learned  to  find  my  strength  within  my- 
self, and  to  such  as  I  was  then,  these  are  bitter  hours 
when  human  ties  fail  us.  Later,  we  look  at  these  dis- 
illusionments  as  but  the  falling  of  the  scaffolding  when 
the  building  is  complete.  One  more  blow  was  to  follow, 
and  then  my  martyred  heart  had  nothing  more  to  fear, 
for  no  human  being  was  near  enough  to  me  to  pain  me 
deeply  by  any  treachery  or  any  loss.  This  last  blow 
was  the  death  of  my  mother;  but  it  was  one  of  those 
pure  griefs,  mingled  with  no  wounded  self-love,  and  it 
seemed  to  wash  the  bitterness  out  of  my  soul.  I  saw 
her  again,  as  I  had  seen  her  for  the  last  time,  her 
sweet  face  wet  with  tears,  her  voice  choked  and  trem- 
bling as  she  said  to  me: 

"  George,  you  are  happy  now,  you  do  not  need  me. 
My  love  is  something  superfluous  in  the  overflowing 

121 


122       THE  JOURNAL  OF  A  RECLUSE 

richness  of  your  life.  But,  perhaps,  there  will  come  a 
day  (I  hope  not)  when  happiness  will  deceive  you  and 
you  will  wish  to  rest  on  a  heart  that  beats  only  for  you. 
Remember  me  on  that  day,  my  boy.  If  I  am  living, 
come  to  me.  If  I  am  dead,  remember,  that  I  am  up 
there;  and  that  even  in  heaven  I  could  not  be  quite 
happy  if  you  were  wretched;  and,  if  possible,  I  shall 
be  near  you  to  keep  you  from  evil,  and  to  throw  about 
you  the  influence  of  this  great  love  which  follows  you 
everywhere.  O  my  eldest  son! — the  pride  of  my 
heart!" 

I  pressed  her  against  my  heart,  astonished  at  this 
simple  eloquence  which  was  not  in  her  manner.  I  was 
touched  by  her  words,  but  my  heart  was  so  full  of 
joy — pain  seemed  so  impossible,  so  remote,  that  they 
were  but  winged  words  and  flew  over,  rather  than  sank 
into  my  heart.  But,  to-day,  they  found  a  void,  and 
filled  it. 

I  threw  myself  across  the  bed  in  the  cheerless  little 
room  that  I  occupied,  and  cried  bitterly.  Then  a  great 
resolution  came  to  me,  a  sacred  hush  in  the  grief  that 
absorbed  me,  and,  rising,  I  whispered  audibly,  as  if  she 
had  been  there  to  hear  me: 

"  O  my  mother,  I  have  wandered  far  away  from 
gratitude  for  your  faithful  love.  I  have  sought  its  sweet- 
ness elsewhere,  and  found  nothing  but  bitterness;  and 
I  swear  to  you,  now,  that  hereafter  I  shall  live  as  if 
you  were  always  near  me,  your  hand  holding  mine,  your 
eyes  looking  into  mine.  I  will  do  nothing  at  sight  of 
which  you  could  not  say :  '  Well  done,  my  son ! '  I 
shall  bear  my  griefs  as  you  have  borne  yours,  and  when 
I  can  no  longer  bear  them,  I  will  do  as  you  did,  I 
will  die  of  them.  You  have  not  loved  and  hoped  all  in 
vain.  No,  by  all  that  is  sacred,  I  will  make  something 
of  my  life  for  your  sweet  sake.  I  am  done  now  for- 
ever with  false  loves,  false  friends.  I  know,  now,  the 
source  of  the  only  beneficent  self-sacrificing  love  on 
earth — it  is  the  heart  of  a  mother." 


UNDER  THE  ROD  123 

In  murmuring  this  resolution,  I  felt  a  new  strength 
thrill  me.  I  lost  no  time  in  vain  regrets  over  my  stu- 
pidity. Remorse  and  regret  sap  the  soul  of  vitality 
when  it  most  needs  it.  I  recognized  that  all  my  errors, 
all  the  sins  of  my  life  had  been  efforts  to  be  happy.  I 
did  not  feel  that  my  experiences  had  been  wholly  lost 
on  me.  I  had  learned  that  it  requires  an  extraordinary 
natural  impulse  towards  the  intellectual  life  to  sustain 
it  alongside  a  life  of  continued  hard  labor.  Leisure 'is 
the  mother  of  civilization,  and  the  man  who  hasn't  it, 
or  who  makes  an  ill  use  of  it,  is  in  danger  of  becoming 
a  brute.  I  saw  that  my  satisfaction  in  life  could  only 
come  from  a  change  of  work  that  would  assure  me 
leisure  to  think,  to  study,  to  resume  in  short  the  intel- 
lectual interests  that  had  been  the  occupation  of  my 
boyhood  and  youth.  My  mother's  love  and  thoughtful- 
ness  for  me  made  this  possible.  Instead  of  spending  the 
money  which  I  had  sent  her  from  Europe,  while  with 
Lord  Eliot,  she  had  carefully  put  it  all  aside  for  me, 
and  at  her  death  a  cheque  for  that  sum,  amounting  to 
$450,  was  sent  to  me. 

My  resolutions  made,  I  bathed  my  face,  and  looked 
into  the  glass  to  see  if  the  trace  of  the  tears  had  been 
removed.  I  was  twenty-four  years  old — a  full-grown 
man,  but  the  face  that  looked  back  at  me  from  the 
glass  had  something  very  boyish  in  it,  in  spite  of  the 
hard  experiences  through  which  I  had  passed.  The  eyes 
were  a  little  more  sunken,  the  cheeks  thinner  than 
formerly ;  but  my  mother  would  have  recognized  me  yet 
in  a  moment.  My  hands  alone  retained  no  trace  of 
their  former  softness  and  whiteness. 

It  was  the  I3th  of  June,  1849,  a  brilliant  day,  the  pure 
air  of  which  cooled  my  burning  cheeks.  "La  vita 
nuova,"  I  said  to  myself  as  I  stepped  into  the  street. 

Italy,  then,  was  in  the  midst  of  her  political  throes 
attendant  the  birth  of  a  new  regime,  and  I  was  follow- 
ing her  history  with  sympathy  and  curiosity. 

Garibaldi  was  the  hero  of  the  hour;  he  had  landed 


124        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

at  Nice  the  preceding  year,  and  all  the  civilized  world 
was  following  his  movements. 

I  bought  a  copy  of  the  New  York  Tribune  from  a 
newsboy,  and  not  only  found  the  news  which  I  was 
searching,  but  also  a  new  answer  to  the  question  which 
was  most  deeply  tormenting  me:  What  shall  I  do  with 
my  life? 

I  care  little  about  American  newspapers.  There  are 
few  of  their  editors  who  either  properly  realize,  or 
care  in  the  least,  about  the  moral  influence  which  they 
exert.  Many  of  them  are  merely  published  as  the 
mouth-piece  of  political  parties,  and  instead  of  trying 
to  give  a  better  tone  to  the  thoughts  of  their  readers, 
they  aim  merely  at  a  foolish  popularity,  and  cater  to  the 
most  vulgar  curiosity  of  the  public.  They  fill,  for  their 
readers,  the  place  of  a  malicious  gossip  in  a  country 
town,  who  knows  everybody's  business  when  it  is  bad 
and  retails  it  with  a  relish  to  all  her  neighbors.  The 
only  difference  is  that,  instead  of  the  town,  it  is  the 
world  at  large  that  furnishes  the  gossip  on  a  colossal 
scale;  and  the  paper  reeks  with  the  odors  of  the  sewer- 
age of  many  cities. 

Column  after  column  of  personal  details  concerning 
notable  people  or  notorious  nobodies,  scandal,  prime, 
casualties,  are  mingled  with  recipes  for  removing 
freckles,  and  descriptions  of  fashionable  toilets. 

But  there  are  newspapers  of  another  class,  not  pub- 
lished merely  to  set  afloat  national  and  international 
gossip.  Their  editors  are  men  of  character  and  high 
intelligence,  who  feel  the  distinction  between  gossip  and 
news.  They  feel  it  a  matter  of  professional  honor  to 
give  their  readers  something  worth  reading.  The  New 
York  Tribune  is  of  this  number.  About  this  time  the 
pretty,  impracticable  social  dream  of  Brook  Farm  had 
just  ended  in  a  flat  failure.  As  communism  is  mostly 
the  dream  of  those  who  have  never  boarded,  it  does 
not  long  survive  a  thorough  experience  of  being  boarder 
and  boarding-house  keeper  on  a  colossal  ^gcale.  Doing 


UNDER   THE  ROD  125 

your  own  work  in  your  own  way  is  soon  seen  to  be 
vastly  superior  in  comfort  and  satisfaction  to  doing 
everybody's  work  in  everybody's  way;  and  communists, 
after  such  an  experience,  go  thankfully  back  to  individ- 
ualism, wide  awake,  with  a  conviction  solid  enough 
never  again  to  be  shaken  by  the  dream  of  human  per- 
fectibility as  an  outcome  of  holding  hands.  They  have 
learned  the  ever  recurrent,  ever  bitter  lesson  of  life  that 
in  his  deepest  interests,  every  man  is  absolutely  and 
necessarily  alone,  and  can  count  upon  no  one  but  him- 
self for  serious  help. 

George  Ripley,  the  founder  of  the  Brook  Farm  ex- 
periment, had  commenced  contributing  little  essays  and 
literary  criticisms  to  the  Tribune,  and  it  chanced  that 
on  this  day  I  found  a  review  which  he  had  written  on 
H.  D.  Thoreau's  "  A  Week  on  the  Concord  and  Mer- 
rimac."  I  have  the  paper  before  me,  now;  I  open  it 
with  Kare,  for  it  is  torn  at  the  folds  and  yellow  with 
years.  Here  are  the  first  lines  that  struck  me  on  that 
June  day  long  ago: 

"  A  really  new  book — a  fresh,  original  work  is  sadly 
rare  in  this  age  of  omniferous  publication.  Mr.  Thor- 
eau's, if  not  entirely  this,  is  very  near  it."  Then  fol- 
lowed a  temperate  criticism,  introduced  by  the  obser- 
vation that  "  Mr.  Thoreau  is  a  native  and  resident  of 
Concord,  Massachusetts — a  scholar,  a  laborer  and  in 
some  sort  a  hermit.  He  traveled  somewhat  in  his 
earlier  years  (he  is  still  young),  generally  trusting  to 
his  own  thoughts  for  company,  and  his  walking  cane 
for  motive  power.  It  would  seem  a  main  purpose  of 
his  life  to  demonstrate  how  slender  an  impediment  is 
poverty  to  a  man  who  pampers  no  superfluous  wants, 
and  how  truly  independent  and  self-sufficient  is  he  who 
is  in  no  manner  the  slave  of  his  own  appetites." 

I  stopped  at  this  sentence  with  a  sudden  thrill  of 
joy.  I  was  like  a  blind  man  groping  in  the  darkness, 
to  whom  some  great  surgeon  had  suddenly  held  out 
the  hope  of  a  restoration  of  his  sight.  That  is  what  I 


was  asking  of  life,  this  interior  light  which  would  in- 
sure me  independence.  Poor,  solitary,  deeply  humil- 
iated, abandoned  by  those  whom  I  had  loved  and 
trusted,  my  heart  still  bleeding  from  an  unhealed  wound, 
I  wished  to  find  in  myself  the  strength  and  joy  I  had 
sought  in  others.  I  wished  to  regain  my  own  esteem, 
and  find  life  beautiful  once  more;  but  to  do  that  I  must 
know  how  to  transmute  my  griefs  into  strength;  and 
at  the  same  time  retain  that  sensibility  which  is  tender 
without  weakness,  and  can  enjoy  without  wishing  to 
possess.  Had  I  been  a  woman,  I  might  have  sought, 
and  doubtless  would  have  found,  my  consolation  in  re- 
ligion, as  so  many  women  do.  I  should  have  renounced 
happiness  on  earth  for  the  promised  bliss  of  heaven. 
But  I  was  a  man.  I  wanted  my  happiness  now,  in  this 
life,  which  alone  I  was  sure  of.  I  had  tasted  it,  I  had 
lost  it,  and  knew  that  it  was  never  to  be  found  in  the 
same  fashion,  again.  I  did  not  wish  to  be  counseled  to 
find  my  joy  outside  of  myself,  or  to  throw  my  griefs  on 
the  shoulders  of  Christ.  I  wished  to  find  my  happi- 
ness where  alone  it  could  be  permanent  and  inviolable, 
and  that  must  be  in  my  own  heart  and  mind. 

This  new  book  gave  me  the  hope  of  finding  a  guide. 
I  started  off,  immediately,  to  hunt  for  a  copy,  found 
one,  bought  it,  and  hurried  home  to  devour  it  at  my 
ease.  Ripley's  criticism  had  given  me  little  more  than 
a  vague  idea  of  the  richness  of  thought  to  be  found  in 
the  book,  although  his  want  of  sympathy  with  its  lib- 
eral tone  had  encouraged  me  to  hope  that  I  should  find 
an  eye  which  looked  straight  ahead,  and  not  backwards. 
I  was  not  disappointed.  Happy  the  man  who  finds  the 
book  that  can  speak  to  him  at  the  right  time!  For  we 
are  not  always  ready  to  digest  a  good  book.  A  year 
earlier,  I  should  have  thought  the  book  lacking  in  the 
warm  pulse-beat  of  life;  that  is  to  say,  too  radiant  with 
the  white  light  of  intelligence,  not  warmly  enough  col- 
ored with  the  red  blood  of  the  heart.  I  would  have 
shivered  and  gasped  for  breath  in  this  dry  cold  air;  but, 


UNDER   THE  ROD  12) 

to-day,  I  breathed  it  with  full-expanded  lungs,  and  i 
was  an  elixir  to  me. 

I  was  weary  of  useless  suffering.  I  longed  ardently 
to  be  master  of  myself,  to  enjoy  my  liberty,  to  say  to 
the  world:  You  can  never  again  wound  me,  I  have 
escaped  from  your  power;  and  I  wished  to  say  it  with 
my  feet  on  the  solid  earth,  and  not  from  the  tenth  story 
of  a  paradise  of  fools.  I  was  too  sound  to  be  a  de- 
bauchee, too  sane  to  be  a  mystic.  I  must  live  in  healthy 
realities  to  be  happy.  I  had  lived  long  enough  in  illu- 
sions. Did  I  wish  to  forget  that  I  had  loved?  A  thou- 
sand times,  no.  That  love  was  woven  into  my  very 
growth.  I  could  not  lose  the  memory  of  it,  without 
losing  my  identity.  But  I  wished  it  to  pease  to  trouble 
me  with  vain  regrets  and  vain  remorse.  I  wished  to 
possess  it,  without  any  longer  being  possessed  by  it. 

In  this  book  of  Thoreau's,  I  saw  the  man  I  would 
have  given  anything  to  be — the  man  who  having  health 
and  a  sharpened  intelligence  asks  nothing  of  fortune, 
nothing  of  society:  he  himself  is  fortune  and  society. 
His  solitude  is  the  fullest  and  most  intimate  compan- 
ionship, because  his  thoughts  are  neither  shackled  nor 
interrupted  by  bigotry  or  babbling.  Luxury  would  be 
lost  on  him,  for  it  speaks  to  tastes  that  he  hasn't.  Under 
the  open  sky,  he  is  everywhere  at  home:  everywhere  at 
home,  also,  in  the  presence  of  truth  and  sincerity;  only 
an  alien  among  the  vain  shows  of  things. 

It  is  true,  that  this  aloofness  from  what  makes  the 
common  interests  of  society  will  pass  for  selfishness  or 
for  shirking,  in  the  eyes  of  many;  but  it  ought  not  to 
be  forgotten  for  a  moment  that  that  man  does  the  most 
for  society  who  gives  it  the  example  and  encourage- 
ment of  the  best  possible  development  of  all  his  fac- 
ulties. It  is  not  Thoreau  as  a  family  man  or  a  good 
neighbor  who  could  give  us  the  peculiar,  rich  fruit  of 
him.  It  is  Thoreau  ripening  in  the  fields  and  woods, 
and  not  pot-planted  in  a  back-parlor  to  the  delight  of 
society,  or  fenced  about  for  family  use  in  a  kitchen 


garden,  from  whom,  in  the  long  run,  society  and  the 
family  are  to  get  the  most  good.  Like  the  rose  which 
fulfills  its  mission  of  blooming,  intent  on  that  alone, 
and  not  troubling  itself  as  to  whether  the  lily  and  violet 
near  by  are  blooming  also,  he,  too,  puts  forth  his  flower 
and  fruit  to  smell  and  taste  sweet  to  those  who  were 
to  come  after  him.  How  full  of  courage,  how  tonic  his 
voice  was  to  me  that  bright  June  day !  I  no  longer  felt 
myself  an  alien  in  the  world.  Here,  too,  was  a  man  to 
whom  the  world's  gains  are  losses,  purchased  at  the  ex- 
pense of  senses  dulled  to  any  but  coarse  and  sensual 
pleasures. 

My  observations  of  commercial  life  had  shown  me 
that  all  the  delicate  instincts  of  the  mind,  all  its  capac- 
ity for  larger  thought  and  deeper  sympathies  are 
atrophied  in  this  exclusive  and  vulgar  desire  to  get  rich. 
There  is  no  principle  of  honor  that  is  not  strained  to 
breaking  in  this  fierce  struggle  of  competition,  no  warm 
human  tie  that  does  not  grow  lax  and  cold.  Such  a 
life  was  a  torture  to  me.  I  felt  gagged  and  bound  hand 
and  foot  in  it.  To  give  the  best  hours  of  my  day  and 
the  freshest  fruits  of  my  mind  to  long  lines  of  figures — 
to  lie  and  steal  within  the  pale  of  the  law,  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  my  neighbor's  misfortunes  to  fill  my  own 
purse,  to  come  home  every  night  with  this  stifling  dust 
of  the  world  in  my  throat,  stupefied,  dulled ;  to  sit  down 
to  a  loaded  table  in  company  with  office  clerks  and 
commercial  travelers,  and  hear  over  again  the  same 
stale  talk  of  money!  money!  money!  seemed  to  me  at 
last,  not  merely  insupportable,  but  suicidal. 

I  began  to  search  eagerly  for  more  information  about 
Thoreau,  and  I  learned  that  he  had  voluntarily  retired 
from  the  world  for  two  years  in  order  to  give  himself 
leisure  to  think  and  live  in  all  his  faculties;  and  that 
during  that  time  he  had  amply  fed  and  clothed  himself 
from  the  fruits  of  his  labor  on  a  little  patch  of  ground 
on  which  he  had  built  a  hut. 

Ah,  that  was  something  that  I,  too,  could  do.     Here 


UNDER   THE  ROD  129 

was  the  question  of  leisure  and  independence  solved  at 
once,  and  I  began  immediately  to  make  plans  to  carry 
out  a  similar  experiment.  I  recalled  my  delight  in  the 
beautiful  forest  in  the  midst  of  which  my  childhood  had 
passed.  I  remembered  what  a  charm  the  ocean  had 
had  for  me  every  time  I  had  stood  on  its  shores,  and 
I  resolved  to  cross  the  continent  and  make  a  home  for 
myself  in  the  virgin  forests  of  the  Pacific  coast.  In 
making  my  preparations  for  departure,  I  felt  for  the 
first  time  since  my  misfortune  something  which  resem- 
bled joy.  My  life  had  an  aim.  I  had  known  the  su- 
preme felicity  of  perfect  friendship,  and  I  could  carry 
the  memory  of  it  with  me  into  the  wilderness.  But  the 
shame  and  bitterness  of  the  mock  friendship,  the  crude 
cold  contact  with  those  whom  I  daily  met,  I  should 
leave  behind  me  when  I  turned  my  back  on  civilization. 
I  left  New  York  on  the  twenty-fourth  of  June.  I  had 
decided  to  make  the  greater  part  of  the  journey  on 
foot,  and  to  take  a  year  for  it,  if  necessary,  following 
the  line  of  the  larger  towns,  interesting  myself  as  much 
as  possible  in  the  various  aspects  of  life  coming  under 
my  notice.  I  had  ordered  a  small  portable  bag  made 
for  me  of  tough  flexible  leather,  into  which  I  placed  a 
few  books:  Shakespeare,  Plutarch's  Lives,  Horace, 
Montaigne,  La  Bruyere,  La  Rochefoucauld,  and  a  small 
copy  of  Silvio  Pellico's  "  Le  mie  prigione,"  which  I 
bought  in  memory  of  the  pleasure  that  Lord  Eliot  and 
I  had  taken  in  it.  My  choice  of  the  other  books  was 
in  accordance  with  the  advice  of  our  tutor,  who  had 
said  to  us  one  day :  "  You  will  find  that  as  the  years 
go  by,  the  books  which  remain  longest  in  your  hands 
and  to  which  you  most  willingly  return,  will  be  those 
which  give  you  the  best  reflection  of  human  life.  Man 
is,  and  always  will  be,  to  himself,  at  least,  the  greatest 
fact  in  the  universe.  Study  man,  therefore,  in  your  own 
heart  and  in  the  heart  of  your  fellowmen  in  life  and 
literature.  But  distrust  for  the  most  part  the  senti- 
mental poets  and  novelists.  They  are  incapable  of  see- 


130        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

ing  things  as  they  are ;  either  over-coloring  -them  with' 
the  hues  of  the  rainbow  or  painting  them  pitch  black, 
according  to  the  smiles  or  the  tears,  that  destiny  has 
allotted  them  in  life.  But  so  much  of  human  happiness 
is  based  on  illusion,  that  the  sentimentalists  will  always 
have  the  larger  following:  then,  too,  they  represent  the 
two  most  charming  things  in  life,  youth  and  femininity, 
and  it  is  difficult  to  escape  their  fascination.  Flee,  too, 
the  paradoxical  books.  They  are  dead-sea  fruit,  pleas- 
ing to  look  at,  but  ashes  on  the  lips." 

I  was  now  about  to  study  man  under  a  new  aspect. 
I  had  seen  him  under  the  most  favorable  conditions  of 
culture  I  had  seen  him  as  an  indispensable  factor  of 
society — the  laborer;  I  was  now  to  see  him  as  a 
drone,  a  superfluity  in  the  society  to  whose  skirts  he 
hangs;  the  professional  tramp.  In  my  journey  across 
the  country,  I  was  necessarily  often  thrown  with  him, 
and  I  found  him  simply  a  man  whom  civilization  has 
left  behind,  the  primitive  man,  in  many  respects,  neither 
esteeming  nor  desiring  the  advantages  of  social  organ- 
ization, regarding  them  rather  as  hindrances  to  the  sat- 
isfaction of  the  only  deeply  rooted  desire  he  has,  that 
of  supplying  the  needs  of  his  body  without  turning  his 
hand  over  in  work.  He  has  his  counterpart  in  the  pro- 
fessional beggar  of  the  old  world.  He  is  the  parasite 
of  the  body  politic.  He  is  not  wicked  in  the  ordinary 
sense  of  the  word,  as  implying  deliberate  and  conscious 
transgression  of  the  written  and  unwritten  law;  but  he 
seems  incapable  of  absorbing  anything  of  civilization  but 
its  vices ;  and  he  is  easily  corrupted  by  false  ideas,  and 
thinks  himself  a  victim  of  society,  rather  than  a  victim 
of  nature.  But  the  turf  is  softer  to  him  than  a  feather 
bed,  and  to  earn  his  living  would  to  him  be  equivalent 
to  losing  his  life;  for  his  instincts  are  wholly  animal. 
But  I  learned  to  understand  his  zest  in  this  free,  idle, 
open  air  life.  I  grew  strong  and  vigorous  in  it,  and 
a  certain  lightness  of  heart  came  to  me  in  these  long 
solitary  walks  that  often  deepened  to  the  keenest  joy. 


UNDER   THE  ROD  131 

The  color  of  the  sky,  the  shadows  of  trees,  the  flight  of 
a  cloud,  the  brilliant  reflection  of  light  in  a  dewdrop, 
the  twitter  of  a  bird,  would  sometimes  thrill  me  like 
the  voice  of  one  I  loved,  and  the  quick  tears  would 
rush  to  my  eyes  and  a  sudden  tenderness  for  all  forms 
of  life  would  fill  my  heart  to  aching.  Once  in  Utah, 
I  saw  the  sun  gild  a  mountain  slope,  and  the  soft  mel- 
low glow  was  like  a  smile  on  the  bare  rock  and  cheered 
me  for  hours. 

But  my  experiences  were  not  always  delightful.  I 
learned  to  bear  hunger  and  thirst,  cold  and  rain,  and 
weariness  in  all  its  forms.  I  even  had  my  courage  put 
to  severe  tests  more  than  once.  I  knew  dejection  and 
discouragement;  but  still  I  persisted,  saying  to  myself 
that  the  sunshine  lay  behind  the  clouds,  and  must  pierce 
through  in  time;  and  that  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  to 
die  until  I  had  proved  that  I  knew  how  to  live. 

And  so  I  made  my  way  across  the  great  continent, 
and  found  myself  in  San  Francisco,  which  was  then 
only  the  hint  of  a  town  and  swarmed  with  adventurers 
rather  than  honest  citizens.  Here  I  supplied  myself 
with  agricultural  tools  and  a  few  necessary  articles  of 
household  furniture,  grains  and  seeds  and  a  quantity 
of  cuttings  of  young  fruit  trees,  and  embarked  on  a 
vessel  for  the  northern  shores  of  Washington  Terri- 
tory. I  chose  for  my  future  home  a  tract  of  land  at 
the  head  of  Bellingham  Bay,  a  beautiful  sheet  of  water 
surrounded  by  a  magnificent  forest.  The  United  States 
Government  has  always  been  generous  with  her  land, 
and  I  got  mine  on  easy  terms.  I  remember  still  the 
curious  exultation  I  felt  in  choosing  a  site  for  my  log- 
cabin,  and  how  unconsciously  the  social  instinct  in  me 
triumphed  over  the  would-be  recluse;  and  all  whom  I 
had  known  and  loved  trooped  about  me  in  fancy,  ap- 
proving or  disapproving  each  new  situation. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

LA    VITA    NUOVA 

THERE  was  a  tribe  of  Indians  settled  not  far  from 
me,  and  a  few  whites  clustered  some  two  or  three  miles 
away,  at  what  is  now  the  town  of  W ,  but  practi- 
cally I  was  as  solitary  as  Adam  before  the  creation 
of  Eve.  But  I  was  too  busy  to  feel  lonely.  To  hew 
the  timber,  to  shape  the  logs,  to  build  my  cabin,  was 
the  work  of  many  days,  and  when  finished  I  took  as 
much  delight  in  it  as  if  it  had  been  a  masterpiece  of 
architecture.  I  needed  only  one  room,,  but  as  space  is 
the  luxury  of  a  home,  I  made  it  very  large  and  took 
especial  pains  with  the  chimney,  which  I  built  with 
stones  gathered  from  the  shore  of  the  bay;  and  shaped 
it  within,  to  form  a  generous  hearth  after  the  fashion 
of  one  which  I  had  seen  in  Holyrood.  I  leveled  and 
beat  the  earth  that  I  had  enclosed,  and  wanting  planks 
for  flooring,  I  covered  it  with  smooth  flat  stones,  form- 
ing a  rude  mosaic,  not  wanting  in  beauty.  Later  I 
bought  bright,  well-woven  blankets  from  the  Indians, 
using  them  for  rugs.  I  made  myself  a  table,  three 
chairs,  and  a  low  couch,  which  I  covered  with  bear- 
skins procured  again  from  my  friendly  neighbors,  the 
Indians.  I  made  my  first  acquaintance  with  them  about 
a  fortnight  after  my  arrival.  I  had  gone  a  good  bit 
farther  down  the  bay  than  usual,  searching  a  muddy 
bed  washed  by  the  tide,  in  which  I  hoped  to  find  some 
edible  mollusks.  I  not  only  found  what  I  was  search- 
ing, but  also  three  Indians,  who  were  digging  for  clams 
with  great  success.  I  knew  that  they  were  to  be  my 
permanent  neighbors,  and  that  it  behooved  me  to  live 
on  terms  of  peace  with  them.  Therefore,  I  saluted  them 
gravely,  and  though  I  could  not  as  yet  understand  their 
language,  I  made  them  understand  my  friendly  inten- 

132 


LA   VITA   NUOVA  133 

tions,  and  by  showing  them  some  small  coins  and  point- 
ing to  their  freshly  gathered  clams,  made  some  pur- 
chases from  them  and  willingly  allowed  them  to  carry 
them  home  for  me.  Evidently  they  reported  favorably 
of  me,  for  I  never  had  the  slightest  difficulty  with  them, 
and  am  much  indebted  to  them  for  many  a  secret  of 
forest  life  that  I  might  have  been  years  discovering  for 
myself,  for  example:  the  medicinal  value  of  various 
herbs ;  the  edible  roots  and  berries ;  the  way  to  snare 
game  and  preserve  the  flesh;  indications  of  changes  in 
the  weather;  an  infallible  guide  to  the  points  of  the 
compass,  when  lost  in  the  woods ;  the  habits  of  the  wild 
animals;  how  to  get  fire  without  matches,  and  how  to 
make  pottery  of  clay.  In  short,  they  put  me  to  school 
in  the  wild  man's  education  as  valuable  in  its  way  as 
any  other;  for  what  is  education  but  perfect  adaptation 
to  one's  surroundings?  It  was  not  a  knowledge  of 
Latin  and  Greek  and  higher  mathematics  that  I  needed 
here.  They  might  pass  current  in  civilization  at  a  high 
artificial  value ;  but  here,  in  the  wilderness,  they  were 
like  the  gold  and  silver  of  the  wrecked  ship  to  Robinson 
Crusoe,  absolutely  valueless  compared  with  a  handful 
of  nails  and  a  hammer.  I  was  touching  life  at  its  roots, 
and  not  where  the  blossoms  grow;  and  just  as  among 
the  rude  lower  class  of  day-laborers,  I  had  to  unlearn 
much  of  my  refinement  to  make  life  tolerable  among 
them;  so,  here,  my  body  had  to  unlearn  the  pampering 
and  coddling  of  artificial  life,  and  put  itself  into  har- 
mony with  nature.  Until  I  could  do  this,  the  wild  man 
was  my  superior.  He  feared  neither  wet  nor  cold. 
This  untamed  nature  was  not  his  enemy,  it  was  his 
friend;  for  he  was  a  part  of  it,  as  much  as  the  other 
animals.  To  be  sure,  his  range  of  enjoyment  was  small 
compared  with  that  of  the  man  of  culture,  and  he  had 
his  terrors  of  the  imagination,  but  he  had  also  its  com- 
pensations in  that  crude  poetry  in  which  the  elements 
are  personified,  and  man  projects  his  soul  into  the  in- 
animate life  which  surrounds  him.  They  were  a  curious 


134        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

study  to  me,  these  grown  children  of  the  wood;  and 
I  have  often  keenly  regretted  that  mistaken  charity 
of  the  United  States  Government  which,  in  attempt- 
ing to  force  a  nineteenth  century  culture  on  a  primi- 
tive race  of  the  stone  age,  is  slowly  but  inevitably  anni- 
hilating them.  It  is  as  if  we  were  to  force  an  ax  into 
the  small  hands  of  a  child,  and  tell  him  that  he  must 
fell  forests  with  it,  or  perish.  We,  too,  have  come  up 
from  the  stone  age,  but  slowly,  painfully,  through  the 
centuries.  We  climbed  the  tree  of  knowledge.  We 
weren't  thrown  forcibly  up  to  the  top  of  it  and  left 
helplessly  sprawling  among  the  branches,  unable  to  see 
heaven  or  earth  for  the  tangled  leaves  thrusting  them- 
selves into  our  eyes.  Perhaps,  some  day,  we  may  come 
to  recognize  that  a  college  education  is  not  the  universal 
panacea  for  human  ills,  that  there  are  even  a  vast  num-- 
ber  of  stubborn,  stolid  minds  incapable  of  receiving  it, 
and  that  the  whitewash  of  culture  spread  over  them  is 
very  thin,  and  will  scale  and  rub  off  in  a  remarkably 
short  time. 

I  did  not  finish  my  house  until  the  beginning  of  au- 
tumn. I  had  worked  like  a  slave,  rising  before  the  dawn 
and  quitting  my  labor  with  the  fall  of  night,  dividing 
my  time  between  the  building  of  my  house  and  the 
clearing  and  tilling  of  my  fields.  The  climate  was  de- 
lightful, reminding  me  of  that  of  my  native  country. 
The  winters  were  mild,  and  the  summer  heat  had  not 
that  fierce  intensity  which  characterizes  it  in  the  Middle 
States. 

I  planted  an  orchard  of  apples,  cherries,  peaches  and 
pears,  which,  in  the  course  of  a  few  years,  gave  me 
an  ample  harvest.  It  was  in  connection  with  my  fruits 
that  I  began  to  feel  develop  in  myself  a  certain  love 
of  perfection,  which  is  probably  an  innate  trait  of  my 
character,  though  I  was  not  conscious  of  it,  until  now. 
I  did  not  care  particularly  about  the  quantity  of  fruits 
my  harvest  yielded,  but  I  was  very  solicitous  about  their 
being  of  the  first  quality.  I  understood  from  the  first, 
that  a  poor  tree  takes  up  just  as  much  space  and  re- 


LA  VITA   NUOVA  135 

quires  just  as  much  care  as  a  good  one,  and  yields  no 
satisfactory  results;  so  I  systematically  weeded  out 
everything  of  inferior  quality  that  I  had  planted,  and 
substituted  for  it  the  best  that  I  could  get.  And  of  this 
best,  I  required  the  best  that  it  could  give  me.  When 
my  trees  showed  by  their  blossoms  that  they  intended 
to  produce  abundantly,  I  let  the  fruit  set  and  then  de- 
stroyed much  of  it  to  insure  a  better  development  of 
what  was  left.  In  preparing  for  the  market,  I  refused 
absolutely  to  sell  anything  that  was  not  first-class,  giv- 
ing away  the  inferior  fruits  to  whoever  would  take 
the  pains  to  come  after  them.  In  this  way,  I  soon  had 
a  particular  reputation  and  could  sell  at  the  highest 
price  in  the  market.  As  the  little  town  grew  and  the 
facilities  for  shipping  increased,  I  added  flowers,  small 
fruits  and  vegetables  to  the  products  of  my  land,  and 
was  able  to  give  employment  to  a  number  of  day  la- 
borers, who,  in  addition  to  the  fair  price  that  I  paid 
them,  were  allowed  to  use  the  fruits  and  vegetables 
which  I  refused  to  sell. 

This  refusal  was  a  sort  of  pride,  I  dare  say,  but  as 
my  indigent  neighbors  profited  by  it,  it  did  more  good 
than  harm.  I  grew  very  much  interested  and  very 
happy  in  my  work.  Undoubtedly,  I  inherited  from  my 
father  his  knack  at  making  things  grow,  and  my  suc- 
cess increased  my  ardor.  And  I  can  say  with  a  cer- 
tainty founded  on  experience,  that  there  is  no  more 
sovereign  remedy  for  the  griefs  of  the  heart  and  the 
weariness  of  the  head  than  to  plant  something,  care  for 
it,  and  watch  it  grow.  It  is  not  a  mere  happy  acci- 
dent that  our  earliest  conception  of  paradise  is  a  gar- 
den. It  is  a  conception  founded  on  experience.  Heart 
and  head  are  interested  at  the  same  time,  and  self- 
love,  without  which  it  is  not  possible  to  live,  finds  its 
aliment  in  the  thought  that  all  this  beauty  and  vigor  of 
plant  life  is  the  work  of  one's  own  hands. 

The  virgin  soil  asked  only  to  receive  the  seeds  to  give 
them  back  a  hundred  fold,  so  that  I  had  not  to  occupy 
myself  with  those  questions  of  soil  that  make  a  science 


136       THE  JOURNAL  OF  A  RECLUSE 

of  agriculture  in  our  days,  but  I  had  questions  of  my 
own  to  answer  that  cost  no  little  time.  Every  living 
thing  has  its  enemies.  There  were  harmful  insects, 
against  which  I  had  to  make  war;  little  wild  animals 
that  found  my  garden  a  good  foraging  place;  birds 
that  took  rather  too  much  pay  for  their  song.  I  had 
also  to  consider  the  tendency  to  spread,  rather  than  to 
concentrate,  which  dominates  nature,  whose  intentions 
are  not  always  in  the  interests  of  man.  I  lavished  on 
my  plants  the  care  of  a  mother  over  her  children,  and 
I  reprimanded  them  in  their  faults,  like  a  good  father. 
I  learned  to  graft  choice  twigs  on  foreign  stock,  and 
to  bring  forth  new  varieties,  and,  after  many  years,  I 
was  known  as  an  authority  in  my  domain,  and  saw 
money  pile  up  around  me  without  effort;  and  tranquil 
happiness  walked  by  my  side. 

Then  the  Civil  War  broke  out.  I  am  not  at  all  a 
man  of  war,  and  I  did  not  enlist  as  a  soldier,  but  I 
felt  the  justice  of  the  cause.  I  had  enjoyed  years  of 
liberty,  and  I  did  not  wish  to  see  the  same  privilege 
denied  to  anyone  on  the  score  of  the  color  of  his  skin. 
I  had  saved  about  eight  thousand  dollars.  I  reserved 
of  that  sum  five  hundred  dollars,  and  gave  the  rest  to 
the  government  to  be  used  in  the  care  of  the  sick  and 
wounded,  who  were  serving  their  country,  and  resolved 
so  long  as  the  war  continued,  to  give  three-fourths  of 
my  earnings  for  the  same  purpose.  It  seemed  to  me 
the  most  legitimate  way  for  me  to  share  in  the  misfor- 
tunes that  had  befallen  the  country  which  sheltered  me. 

The  war  is  ended.  Right  has  triumphed,  but  her 
hands  are  red  with  blood.  The  victims  are  counted,  and 
history  will  relate  the  defeats  and  the  victories;  but  I 
am  so  far  away  from  the  hum  and  noise  of  it,  that  it 
all  seems  local  and  temporal,  measured  with  other  ques- 
tions universal  and  eternal.  There  is  another  slavery 
worse  than  that  which  chains  the  body;  and  another 
liberty,  incomparably  better  than  that  of  calling  no  man 
master. 


CHAPTER   XV 

A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE 

I  SHOULD  give  a  wrong  impression  of  my  life,  if  it 
should  appear  that  during  all  this  time  I  enjoyed  no 
pleasurable  social  intercourse  with  my  fellow-man.  On 
the  contrary,  there  hardly  passed  a  day,  except  during 
the  winters,  in  which  I  did  not  see  somebody.  When  I 
made  for  my  room  three  chairs,  I  had  counted,  even 
then,  on  some  company,  and  I  did  not  count  in  vain. 
But  among  my  visitors  there  was  only  one  man  whom 
I  could  really  regard  as  my  equal  intellectually,  and  with 
whom  it  really  was  an  exceptional  treat  to  converse.  I 
can  hardly  explain  the  feeling  I  had  for  him.  He  inter- 
ested me  at  all  times,  he  often  fascinated  me;  yet  there 
were  times  when  he  irritated  me  exceedingly.  I  had 
not  yet  arrived  at  that  degree  of  wisdom  which  accepts 
everything  without  astonishment,  and  his  cool  utter- 
ances of  what,  to  me,  were  the  most  selfishly  immoral 
principles,  never  left  me  unmoved. 

Of  course,  I  was  familiar  with  the  idea  so  forcibly 
set  forth  by  La  Rochefoucauld  that  self-love  lies  at  the 
bottom  of  all  our  actions,  even  those  which  are  appar- 
ently the  most  disinterested;  but  to  deliberately  set  up 
egotism  in  its  crudest,  coldest  forms  as  a  code  of  morals ; 
to  place  instinct  and  appetite  above  reason;  to  efface 
the  word  duty,  and  substitute  for  it  the  word  pleasure; 
to  deny  that  law  and  restraint  are  the  necessary  basis  of 
social  organization  was  something  entirely  new  to  me. 
If  it  be  possible  to  be  born  without  any  moral  sense, 
or  to  lose  it  by  a  persistent  course  of  self-indulgence, 
I  should  say  that  the  moral  sense  was  absolutely  want- 
ing in  him.  That  was  good  which  pleased  him,  that 

137 


138        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

was  bad  which  caused  him  pain  or  inconvenience.  The 
universe  revolved  about  him:  he  felt  himself  unique. 

But,  as  I  said,  he  was  interesting,  and  unfortunately 
we  have  all  so  great  a  horror  of  being  bored  that  we 
pardon  everything  to  the  man  or  woman  who  keeps  us 
from  yawning.  I  have  often  thought,  since  I  met  him, 
that  it  is  a  blessing  to  humanity  that  along  with  a 
natural  eloquence,  sometimes  even  brilliant,  he  was  too 
indolent,  or  too  indifferent  to  proselyte;  else  he  might 
easily  have  founded  a  modern  sect  of  Epicuri  de  grege 
porci.  For  it  is  a  pitiful  reflection  upon  human  gulli- 
bility that  no  doctrine  is  too  vile  or  too  idiotic  to  re- 
ceive credence,  if  its  founder  be  only  brazen-lunged 
and  brazen-faced  enough  to  keep  on  preaching  it  for 
any  length  of  time;  and  they  who  have  exercised  the 
deepest  influence  and  the  most  lasting  are  not  the  tran- 
quil thinkers,  exponents  of  truth  and  common  sense; 
but  the  wild  fanatics,  the  eloquent  insane,  the  restless 
dreamers,  the  inspired  idiots :  not  the  Galileos,  the  Kep- 
lers,  and  the  Newtons,  but  the  Mahomets,  the  Rous- 
seaus,  the  Joanna  Southcotes,  and  the  Swedenborgs. 

John  McKenzie,  tar  that  is  the  name  of  my  new  ac- 
quaintance, came  to  Washington  Territory  about  five 
years  ago,  and  took  up  his  residence  with  an  Indian 
tribe.  Among  them  he  found  a  young  Indian  girl  to  his 
taste,  who  lived  with  him  as  his  wife  and  bore  him 
three  children.  He  is  a  man  of  my  age,  strong,  vig- 
orous, handsome,  with  a  bright  dark  eye,  and  a  general 
air  of  masculine  strength  and  intelligence.  Besides  the 
bond  of  race  which  unites  us,  there  is  the  closer  bond 
of  nationality.  He  comes  from  Ayrshire,  Scotland,  and 
has  his  Burns  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue. 

We  first  met  one  autumn  day,  two  years  ago.  I  was 
rambling  through  the  woods  at  a  considerable  distance 
from  home,  a  habit  I  have  at  this  season  of  the  year, 
and  in  spring-time.  I  love  to  see  the  youth  and  the 
old  age  of  this  natural  vegetation,  which  is  renewed 
every  year,  and  I  love  to  see  it  quite  alone.  I  wish 


A   NEW   ACQUAINTANCE  139 

not  to  be  fastidious  in  the  streets,  shops,  or  bazaars,  I 
have  no  quarrel  with  a  companion  when  it  comes  to  rid- 
ing, driving,  or  a  general  conversation  at  home;  but  I 
confess  to  a  rigid  exclusiveness  when  it  comes  to  a  long 
walk  in  the  woods.  There  I  must  have  sympathy  in 
my  companion.  He  must  be  capable  of  silence  as  well 
as  admiration;  he  must  be  indifferent  to  his  individual 
comfort,  unconscious  of  the  existence  of  dust  or  bram- 
bles. I  knew  one  such  elastic,  liberal  soul,  but  none 
here;  so  that  my  hours  in  the  woods  were  always  soli- 
tary. 

While  I  was  walking  along,  gathering  here  and  there 
a  brighter  leaf,  a  late  flower,  or  some  edible  berry,  I 
suddenly  ran  across  a  man,  leaning  over  a  little  trap, 
from  which  he  was  freeing  a  squirrel.  I  was  as  surprised 
as  Robinson  Crusoe  at  the  trace  of  a  man's  foot  in  the 
sand  of  his  deserted  island;  for,  during  all  the  years  I 
had  lived  here,  I  had  never  before  met  a  white  man 
in  the  depths  of  the  forest.  As  I  knew  by  sight  every 
man  in  the  village  and  for  miles  around  it,  I  saw  at 
once  that  he  was  a  stranger  in  this  vicinity.  However, 
I  greeted  him  as  if  we  were  old  acquaintances,  and  he 
replied  in  the  same  manner.  Our  conversation  opened 
with  some  questions  and  replies  about  the  character  of 
the  game  in  the  forest.  Then  came  the  abrupt  intro- 
duction. 

"  You  are  Mr.  George  Graham,  aren't  you  ? "  asked 
the  stranger. 

"Yes,  that's  my  name.  But  you  have  the  advantage 
over  me,  for  I  can't  so  readily  call  yours." 

"  No,"  he  replied  with  a  smile.  "  I  am  not  an  old 
settler  here  like  you,  and  haven't  made  any  reputation 
among  my  neighbors.  By  the  way,  I  hear  nothing  but 
good  of  you,  and  am  glad  to  know  you.  My  name  is 
McKenzie — John  McKenzie." 

"  Ah,  that's  a  Scotch  name ;  glad  to  meet  you,  sir." 

"  Yes,  I'm  from  Ayrshire ;  and  if  agreeable  to  you, 
you'll  very  likely  see  more  of  me,  for  though  I'm  liv- 


140        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

ing  among  the  Indians  up  here,  I  haven't  so  far  unciv- 
ilized myself  as  not  to  enjoy  a  talk  now  and  then  with 
one  of  my  race." 

This  remark  interested  me  and  I  asked  him  how  a 
civilized  man  could  reconcile  himself  to  living  with  an 
inferior  race  unless  he  felt  himself  called  to  do  so  as 
a  missionary ;  adding  that  he  didn't  seem  to  me  to  have 
the  air  of  one,  nor  of  a  misanthrope,  either. 

He  laughed,  and  said  I  was  right:  he  was  neither 
missionary  nor  misanthrope,  but  that  he  had  a  passion 
for  liberty,  liked  to  obey  no  laws  but  his  own — and 
loved  the  air  of  the  woods  better  than  that  of  the 
streets.  Then  the  conversation  took  a  general  turn,  and 
we  parted  with  the  wish  that  we  might  soon  meet  again. 

It  is  so  difficult  to  escape  judgments  limited  by  one's 
own  personal  experience,  that  thinking  of  him  on  the 
way  home,  I  unconsciously  wove  a  vague  romance 
about  him,  and  fancied  some  deep  private  sorrow  lay 
at  the  bottom  of  this  voluntary  withdrawal  from  his 
race.  I  promised  myself  much  pleasure  from  his  com- 
pany, and  in  that  I  was  not  disappointed,  although  I 
soon  found  my  romance  about  him  was  all  nonsense. 

He  had  read  a  very  great  deal,  lived  under  a  great 
variety  of  circumstances,  had  thought  a  good  deal,  and 
expressed  himself  with  vigor  and  originality.  He  vis- 
ited me  often,  seeming  to  be  interested  in  my  manner 
of  living,  and  to  wonder  a  little  at  it.  By  this  time  I 
had  collected  a  small  but  very  choice  library  of  several 
hundred  volumes  in  English,  French,  German,  Spanish, 
Italian,  Greek  and  Latin. 

After  looking  them  over  with  curiosity,  one  evening, 
he  said  to  me: 

"  Graham,  you  are  a  recluse  only  on  the  surface  and 
by  accident.  You  belong  to  the  world,  and  evidently 
to  the  society  of  every  country  and  every  age.  I  am 
really  at  heart  more  of  a  recluse  than  you,  though  I 
don't  call  myself  that.  One  of  the  greatest  pleasures 
I  get  from  living  with  the  Indians  is  the  knowledge  that 


A   NEW   ACQUAINTANCE  141 

among  them  I  am  free  from  all  attachments  that  are 
more  than  skin-deep." 

Now,  he  had  already  informed  me  that  he  was  liv- 
ing familiarly  with  a  young  Indian  woman,  who  had 
borne  him  children,  so  that  I  asked,  with  some  sharp- 
ness: 

"  How  is  it  possible  to  live  without  deep  attachments, 
when  one  has  a  wife  and  children?" 

We  were  seated  before  the  huge  fireplace,  whose  flick- 
ering light  danced  over  our  faces.  Outside,  the  cold 
was  intense,  and  the  snow  which  had  fallen  all  the  short 
winter  day  was  piled  high  on  the  window  casings.  I 
had  filled  a  large  wooden  bowl  with  nuts,  and  a  pitcher 
with  cider,  and  after  refreshing  ourselves  with  this 
homely  cheer,  we  had  lighted  our  pipes,  and  the  con- 
versation was  in  full  swing. 

At  my  question,  he  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth, 
and  looking  at  me  with  his  eyebrows  slightly  raised, 
and  a  half-contemptuous  smile  on  his  lips,  he  said: 

"  Suppose  the  children  are  only  accidents,  and  the 
wife  a  convenience  ?  " 

"  Convenience !  accidents !  "  I  repeated,  scarcely  un- 
derstanding him. 

"I  am  paying  you  the  compliment  of  absolute  sin- 
cerity. I  am  thinking  out  loud.  Does  that  shock  you  ?  " 

"  Shock  ?  no ; — astonish  ?  yes.  I  know  there  are  men 
for  whom  woman  does  not  exist  except  as  a  conveni- 
ence, or  a  necessity,  but  you " 

"But  me?  O,  my  friend,  don't  put  me  on  a  pedestal. 
I  want  to  stand  on  the  ground  where  I  belong.  I 
have  only  one  virtue.  It  is  that  of  not  posing,  or  wish- 
ing to  pass  for  more  than  I  am  worth,  and  I  detest 
all  sentimentalism  that  refuses  to  look  at  me  except 
through  stained  glass.  The  savage  is  strong  in  me.  I 
am  glad  of  it.  That  means  health,  vigor,  sanity.  I  am 
not  the  man  to  think  more  highly  of  a  bear  because 
he  has  learned  to  dance,  or  of  a  monkey  because  he  has 
on  a  red  jacket  and  a  cap  with  bells,  and  can  hold  out 


142        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A  RECLUSE 

his  hand  to  staring  children  for  a  penny.  That  is  about 
what  civilization  does  for  most  of  us;  it  teaches  us  to 
dance,  and  to  wear  a  cap  and  bells,  and  to  bow  to  the 
one  whose  cap  is  reddest  and  whose  bells  make  the 
most  noise.  That  is  to  say,  it  creates  artificial  values. 
Which  is  the  stronger  man  of  the  two,  you  or  I?  You 
can't  make  the  wilderness  habitable  without  bringing 
into  it  the  essence  of  civilization,"  and  at  this  he  made 
a  sweeping  gesture  with  his  arm  in  the  direction  of 
the  bookcases,  along  the  wall — "  and  I — I  shouldn't 
know  what  to  do  with  them ;  this  earth  itself,  the  brown 
crust  of  it  tastes  so  sweet  to  me,  that  I  want  to  nibble 
at  nothing  else." 

I  smiled,  and  tranquilly  asked :  "  Why  do  you  kick 
down  the  ladder  by  which  you  have  climbed?  You  are 
an  educated  man,  and  so  you,  too,  carry  into  the  wilder- 
ness with  you  the  essence  of  civilization  in  the  most 
portable  of  all  forms:  a  trained  intellect,  the  power  to 
think  and  feel  subtly.  You  can't  rid  yourself  of  your 
inheritance  of  the  culture  of  your  race  by  going  into 
the  wilderness,  any  more  than  the  red  man  could  rid 
himself  of  his  inherited  savagery  by  walking  from  his 
wigwam  into  a  public  library.  Neither  is  civilization  a 
mere  ornament,  a  trick  of  carriage  or  a  cap  and  bells. 
It  is  an  inherited  tendency  towards  progress  and  a 
capacity  for  it.  Ask  yourself  therefore  whether  you 
or  an  Indian  chief  are  the  stronger,  and  not  you  or  I? 
You  and  I  are  too  much  alike  to  be  compared." 

"  No !  no !  Stop  there ! "  he  cried  eagerly.  "  That's 
the  point  I  wish  to  clear  up.  We  are  not  alike,  you 
and  I,  and  I  want  you  to  know  me  just  as  I  am.  That 
will  put  our  friendship  on  a  solid  basis.  It  will  make 
our  association  more  agreeable  for  both  of  us.  You 
won't  expect  heroics  of  me,  and  I — I  shall  not  expect 
from  you  any  magnificent  indifference  to  convention- 
alities and  to  the  so-called  laws  that  make  the  founda- 
tion of  society.  For  although  you  live  like  a  recluse, 
you  were  born  to  be  the  ornament  of  a  little  coterie  of 


A   NEW  ACQUAINTANCE  143 

— of  women.  You  must  have  been  a  success  among 
them,  eh?" 

He  took  a  long  pull  at  his  pipe,  and  then  looked  at 
me  in  a  teasing  way,  as  if  I  had  been  a  boy  of  twenty. 
I  felt  myself  redden,  and  stooped  over  to  stir  the  fire, 
which  answered  my  efforts  with  leaping  flames  and  a 
cheerful  crackling. 

"  You  are  entirely  mistaken,"  I  said. 

"  What !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Do  you  mean  to  be  re- 
served here  in  the  wilds  of  the  forest,  and  with  a 
half-wild  man?" 

"Reserves?    Who  hasn't  them,  even  with  himself?" 

"  Then  you  deny  that  you  have  ever  loved  a  woman  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all.  I  deny  nothing.  I  admit  nothing.  But 
I  am  an  old  story  to  myself  and  the  subject  doesn't 
interest  me.  But  you — you  are  something  new,  since 
you  say  you  are  not  at  all  like  me;  let  me  hear  your 
views  of  life,  then.  I  assure  you  that  I  am  a  good 
listener." 

He  put  his  pipe  into  his  mouth  again,  and  after 
smoking  a  few  moments  in  silence,  removed  it,  and 
said: 

"It  is  strange!  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  talking 
about  myself,  either:  but  I  feel  reminiscent  to-night. 
I  am  probably  about  your  age,  thirty-eight — though  you 
look  a  good  deal  younger  than  I ;  but  from  what  you've 
let  fall  now  and  then,  I  infer  that  you  are  older  than 
you  look." 

"  I  was  born  in  'twenty-five,"  I  said. 

"  Indeed  ?  Well,  that's  my  birth-year,  too.  I  am 
the  youngest  son  of  a  well-to-do  family,  with  an  en- 
tailed estate;  and  so  I  was  destined  from  my  birth  for 
the  church.  Absurd,  isn't  it,  to  mark  out  a  child's  ca- 
reer before  he  has  shown  any  aptitude  for  it.  To  be 
sure,  it  doesn't  require  any  degree  of  intelligence  to  suc- 
ceed in  the  ministry.  It  is  the  one  calling  par  excel- 
lence in  which  a  very  mediocre  person  can  make  a  fine 
show  in  life.  The  whole  outfit  is  purely  conventional. 


144        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

Let  him  lay  in  a'  stock  of  silk  hats,  long-tailed  black 
Coats  and  white  cravats;  let  him  fit  up  his  head  with  a 
conventional  stock  of  ready-made  doctrines  and  ^ reli- 
gious phrases;  let  him  shave  regularly,  and  cultivate  a 
sleek  expression ;  let  him  practice  a  slow  unctuous  smile, 
and  a  slow,  monotonous,  grave  voice;  let  him  see  a 
great  deal  of  women,  and  very  little  of  men,  and  he's 
set  up  for  life.  Christmas  and  Thanksgiving  are  not 
his  only  turkey  days.  He  sleeps  on  feathers.  He  has 
the  fatted  calf  killed  every  time  he  dines  out;  he  is  the 
idol  of  women  and  the  revered  guide  of  men,  who  think 
in  grooves,  and  out  of  the  groove,  flounder  and  fall. 
Well,  God  never  intended  me  for  a  stuffed  doll  like 
that.  He  put  blood  into  my  veins  instead  of  sawdust. 
I  could  never  bow  my  neck  under  any  yoke,  and  the 
predestination  to  the  church  was  the  scourge  of  my 
childhood,  the  despair  and  shame  of  my  youth,  and 
finally  the  cause  of  my  voluntary  exile  from  my  native 
land.  I  disgraced  myself  for  disobedience  at  college, 
and  to  avoid  reproaches  at  home  I  enlisted  in  the  reg- 
ular army.  But  military  discipline  was  no  more  to  my 
taste  than  college  discipline,  or  the  restraints  of  cler- 
ical life.  I  tried  the  sea,  for  a  while,  saw  many  differ- 
ent countries,  and  finally  drifted  out  here.  This  half- 
wild  life  suits  me  exactly.  It  isn't  wanting  in  excite- 
ment of  a  healthy  sort,  nor  in  danger;  and  it  gives  me 
what  I  covet  more  than  anything  else  on  earth,  perfect 
liberty.  My  family  still  send  me  a  few  hundred  dol- 
lars from  time  to  time,  quite  sufficient  for  all  my  wants, 
so  that  I  have  never  been  obliged  to  succeed  in  any 
enterprise  I  have  undertaken.  Twice  in  my  younger 
days  I  have  experimented  with  civilized  life,  and  ship- 
wrecked my  happiness  each  time.  I  can't  endure  the 
flat  monotony  of  the  little  petty  round  of  daily  duties, 
where,  like  a  squirrel  in  a  cage,  you  tread  the  same 
wheel  forever  and  ever,  and  nibble  at  stale  nuts  thrown 
in  through  the  bars.  God!  how  I  hate  it!  Now,  I 
am  going  to  confess,  freely,  that  each  time  it  was  a 


A   NEW   ACQUAINTANCE  145 

woman  that  caged  me.  And  if  I  had  ever  found  the 
woman  of  the  right  sort,  the  woman  with  something 
broad  and  free  in  her  nature  to  answer  to  the  freedom 
in  mine,  I  might  never  have  broken  the  bars.  But 
there  are  no  such  women.  They  are  all  built  narrow 
gauge;  and  I  know  nothing  in  the  long  run  of  more 
deadly  weariness  than  the  ordinary  domestic  woman 
with  her  head  full  of  ideas  of  personal  decoration,  and 
a  trim  little  set  of  social  conventionalities  to  wind 
around  you,  till  you  can't  move  hand  or  foot,  or  draw 
a  full  breath  to  save  your  life.  Do  you  know  what  I 
think  about  this  eternal  woman  question?  I  thoroughly 
believe  that,  at  bottom,  outside  of  a  few  transitory  mo- 
ments, when  nature  speaks  brutally,  intent  on  her  pur- 
pose of  life,  men  and  women  are  radically  different,  and 
by  that  one  thing  are  implacable  enemies.  They  haven't 
the  same  tastes,  the  same  ideals,  the  same  purposes  in 
life.  For  man,  the  hunt,  war,  life  in  the  open  air;  for 
woman,  repose,  peace,  life  in  the  house;  for  him,  the 
exercise  of  the  intelligence;  for  her,  that  of  the  affec- 
tions. For  him,  the  companionship  of  his  own  sex; 
for  her,  that  of  children. 

"  The  ancients  knew  that.  The  savages  with  whom 
I  live  know  it,  and  what  virility  of  intellect  they  have, 
they  keep  intact  by  knowing  it.  I  tell  you  a  woman 
can  no  more  think  a  man's  thoughts  than  grow  a  man's 
beard." 

"Of  course  not,"  I  interrupted;  "and  what  of  it? 
Isn't  her  smooth  chin  as  fine  in  its  way  as  a  beard? 
Indeed,  don't  we  confess  by  shaving  off  our  own,  that 
we  like  it  a  good  deal  better?  A  woman's  thoughts,  of 
course,  are  not  a  man's  thoughts;  but  they  are  none 
the  less  valuable  and  true,  for  they  grow  out  of  her 
experiences,  as  a  man's  grow  out  of  his.  Her  soprano 
has  not  the  volume  of  his  bass,  but  it  has  its  range  and 
sweetness,  and  it  is  as  necessary  in  the  full  harmony 
of  music  as  his." 

"  Yes,  yes,  of  course,  I  grant  all  that.     But  it  isn't 


146        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

just  now  the  relative  value  of  feminine  and  masculine 
gifts  that  I  am  concerned  with;  it  is  the  difference: 
and  it  is  just  this  difference  that  your  modern  woman 
is  intent  on  disputing.  She  insists  on  calling  the  fuzz 
on  her  chin  a  beard.  She  tries  to  swell  her  soprano 
into  a  trumpet  note;  or,  to  speak  plainly,  she  is  ambi- 
tious of  applying  her  little  fireside  principles  to  the 
management  of  society  in  general;  she  brings  forward 
her  tame  little  conventional  back-parlor  standards  and 
offers  them  to  men  as  iron-clad  ethical  principles;  she 
wants  to  measure  the  globe  with  her  tape-measure,  and 
pluck  sin  out  of  the  world  with  a  pair  of  tweezers. 
Now,  that  is  what  I  object  to.  I  object  to  effemina- 
tion.  I  object  to  the  spread  of  superstition.  Their 
hands  pull  backward.  Their  legs  are  made  for  short 
steps,  and  not  to  leap  over  chasms.  They  are  incapable 
of  dealing  with  facts.  They  can't  find  their  happiness, 
except  in  pretty  illusions." 

"  But  you  can  hardly  call  that  a  feminine  weakness. 
We  are  all  more  or  less  tarred  with  it.  I  believe  as 
you  do,  that  there  is  nothing  more  beautiful  in  life 
than  that  perfect  sanity  of  mind  which  can  look  the 
dreariest  facts  in  the  face  without  recoiling,  or  taking 
refuge  in  the  world  of  phantasms  that  we  call  the  ideal ; 
but  there  is  really  nothing  more  difficult.  I  confess 
that  ever  since  I  passed  out  of  boyhood  I've  been  trying 
to  do  that  very  thing,  and  I've  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  it  is  against  nature,  and  the  privilege  of  very  rare, 
very  well-balanced  minds  to  hug  their  ugly  facts  to 
their  bosom,  without  ever  attempting  to  gild  them  a 
little,  or  trick  them  out  with  the  tinsel  of  the  imag- 
ination." 

"  But  that's  quite  legitimate ;  that's  the  essence  of 
poetry.  I  am  not  at  all  objecting  to  that.  Life  would 
be  very  dull  if  there  was  nothing  in  it  but  the  multipli- 
cation table.  The  rose  is  as  much  of  a  fact  as  the 
cabbage.  I  am  speaking  of  the  deliberate  preference  of 
tne  false  to  the  true,  which  is  the  chief  characteristic 


A   NEW   ACQUAINTANCE  147 

of  the  feminine  intellect.  Most  of  them  are  capable  of 
giving  you  as  their  reason  for  belief  in  illusions  and 
false  doctrines  that  they  wouldn't  like  to  believe  any- 
thing else.  I  heard  a  woman,  who  was  accounted  very 
clever,  say  once  that,  for  her,  the  chief  argument  for 
immortality  was  man's  intense  desire  for  it.  Such  a 
desire  she  was  quite  sure  couldn't  exist  without  a  pos- 
sibility of  its  fulfillment,  as  if  every  day  of  her  life  she 
hadn't  a  score  of  wishes  incapable  of  fulfillment.  It  is 
this  making  of  their  desires  and  their  immense  vanity, 
the  touchstone  of  truth,  that  leads  them  into  all  those 
silly  vagaries  of  sentimentalism  that  every  sensible  man 
ought  to  despise.  Modern  civilization,  however,  has 
decreed  that  woman  is  man's  equal  and  comrade,  and 
we  must  shorten  our  strides  and  take  mincing  steps  to 
make  the  gait  comfortable  for  her.  And  in  taking  it 
easy  along  with  her,  we,  too,  have  become  weak.  Not 
to  shock  her  by  the  truth,  we  make  hypocrites  of  our- 
selves. We  feign  to  blush  at  our  nudity,  we  speak  an 
emasculated  language,  full  of  euphemisms  and  circum- 
locutions. We  cease  to  love  the  strong,  in  a  maudlin 
pity  for  the  weak.  We  build  asylums  for  idiots,  and 
let  our  scholars  die  in  obscurity,  or  set  them  to  serving 
these  same  idiots.  Now  don't  misunderstand  me.  I 
think  I  am  as  capable  of  pity  as  any  soft-hearted  woman 
of  them  all,  but  I  don't  misplace  it.  I  don't  project 
myself  into  the  situation  of  an  unfortunate  child,  and 
fancy  that  he  feels  exactly  what  I  would  if  I  were  in 
his  situation,  with  all  my  present  feelings,  matured  and 
sharpened  by  entirely  different  surroundings.  But  that's 
what  women  do.  Sensitive,  vain,  emotional,  fastidious, 
they  get  up  cases  of  pity,  exactly  as  the  novelist  does, 
by  a  play  of  the  imagination.  They  have  no  concep- 
tion, for  example,  of  the  fact  that  a  hardened  criminal 
is  capable  of  feeling  the  fiercest  joy  and  pride  in  the 
crime  which  he  has  committed.  Oh,  no — they  picture 
him  in  tears,  rent  by  remorse,  as  they  would  be  in  his 
situation;  they  recall  the  sleepless  night  which  they 


passed  after  having  slapped  Eddie  in  a  momentary  fit 
of  anger,  and  they  take  up  a  collection  or  beg  flowers 
from  their  neighbors  to  cheer  up  the  poor  fellow.  Bah ! 
it  makes  me  sick  to  think  of  it ! " 

I  listened  in  silence  to  this  harangue.  I  had  read 
Schopenhauer,  and  was  very  familiar  with  this  attitude 
of  contempt  towards  women,  and  I  remembered  that 
Schopenhauer,  like  all  men  who  degrade  women,  was 
at  the  same  time  their  slave;  and  it  seemed  to  me  that 
this  bitter  contempt  is  rather  the  cry  of  shame  and 
indignation  at  the  slavery  to  woman  than  the  calm 
judgment  of  the  intelligence. 

"Then  you  haven't  a  very  high  idea  of  marriage  on 
the  basis  of  companionship?"  I  said  tentatively. 

"  No — not  at  all — for  the  simple  reason  that  the  pri- 
mary object  which  unites  two  people  in  marriage,  when 
it  is  properly  entered  into,  is  not  companionship.  Mar- 
riage exists  for  the  sake  of  the  family.  If  there  is  any 
sanctity  in  it  at  all,  it  is  the  children  that  bring  it. 
They  are  at  once  the  excuse  and  the  recompense  for 
disillusionment,  if  there  has  been  disillusionment,  and 
they  are  the  bond  of  a  closer  union,  when  the  mar- 
riage is  happy.  There  ought  to  be  the  strongest  public 
sentiment  against  any  other  object  of  union,  so  that  the 
union  of  old  people  or  that  of  a  young  man  with  a 
woman  too  old  to  bear  children,  or  incapacitated  for 
bearing  them,  would  be  regarded  as  something  shame- 
fully disgraceful,  and  the  young  man  made  to  feel  that 
he  had  committed  a  crime  against  his  young  manhood. 
But  what  is  the  fact?  It  is  women  who  create  public 
opinion  in  this  matter;  and  marriage  is  their  stock  in 
trade ;  their  way  of  getting  a  living  or  being  taken  care 
of.  I  once  boarded  in  a  hotel  where  a  woman  habit- 
ually spoke  of  her  husband  as  her  meal-ticket;  and  the 
other  women  laughed.  I  said  to  her :  '  So  you  sold 
yourself  for  a  mess  of  pottage.'  She  wasn't  insulted; 
how  could  she  be  ?  Delicacy  in  women !  My  God !  and 
yet,  if  you  tell  them  the  naked  truth  about  love,  even 
the  woman  who  sells  herself  for  a  meal  ticket  will  re- 


A   NEW   ACQUAINTANCE  149 

volt  and  call  you  a  brute.  You  see,  it  is  excessively  hu- 
miliating to  a  woman's  vanity  to  think  that  the  attrac- 
tion which  she  has  for  a  man  has  nothing  in  it  partic- 
ular and  stable,  but  that  all  women  possess  it  to  a  cer- 
tain degree.  Yet,  in  her  heart,  she  knows  that  it  is 
merely  a  matter  of  physical  charm,  and  she  tries  to 
preserve  it  with  the  appearance  of  youth  as  long  as  she 
can,  knowing  very  well  that  her  empire  is  over  with 
wrinkles  and  gray  hair.  The  movement  to  prolong  her 
empire  by  making  herself  valued  for  her  intelligence 
comes  from  those  women  who  cannot  hope  to  rule  in 
the  empire  of  flesh — a  thousand  times  dearer  to  women, 
and  to  man,  too,  than  that  of  the  mind." 

"  I  think  you  exaggerate.  But  don't  you  see  that  the 
very  thing  which  you  complain  of — marriage  being  a 
sort  of  trade  with  women — comes  from  your  excluding 
them  from  any  other  way  of  earning  a  livelihood.  Years 
ago,  I  met  a  brilliant  young  woman  in  Paris,  a  beauti- 
ful and  charming  woman,  too,  who  complained  bitterly 
of  the  restriction  of  a  woman's  sphere  of  action — and 
pleaded  as  eloquently  as  ever  you  could  for  that  free- 
dom which,  you  say,  is  so  necessary  to  your  happiness. 
I  shall  never  forget  her.  She  had  taken  to  public  life, 
and  showed  remarkable  energy  and  decision  in  every- 
thing she  did.  In  any  situation  that  required  particular 
adroitness,  it  was  always  to  Mile  C that  her  com- 
panions turned." 

"Mile  C !  Mile  C— !"  he  repeated  mu- 
singly ;  "  where  have  I  heard  that  name  before  ?  Oh,  yes, 
I  remember  now.  I  wonder  if  it  could  possibly  be  the 
same  woman.  About  eleven  years  ago — yes,  it  was  '50 — 
I  happened  to  spend  the  winter  in  Paris,  when  a  remark- 
able criminal  case  was  going  on.  The  papers  were  full 
of  it.  You  heard  it  talked  of  wherever  you  went,  and 
there  was  a  general  sentiment  in  favor  of  the  defendant, 

who  was  none  other  than  this  Mile  C .  She,  too, 

was  a  public  woman,  a  communist.  She  had  shot,  with 
intention  to  kill,  an  Italian  marquis,  who  refused  to 
acknowledge  the  paternity  of  her  boy,  about  ten  or 


150        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

eleven  years  old  at  that  time,  I  think,  maybe  a  little 
older — I  don't  exactly  remember.  A  handsome  boy,  his 
picture  was  reproduced  everywhere,  a  boy  any  man 
ought  to  be  proud  to  acknowledge;  but  it  seems  the 
marquis  was  on  his  wedding  trip  with  a  young  English 
lady,  with  an  English  woman's  sentiments  of  propriety, 
no  doubt,  and  it  wasn't  convenient  just  then  to  make 
explanations.  It  was  easier  to  deny  the  whole  thing, 
and  carry  a  bullet  in  his  shoulder." 

"  She  did  not  kill  him,  then  ?  "  I  asked  the  question 
with  drawling,  apparently  indifferent  deliberation;  and 
my  heart  was  beating  like  a  trip-hammer,  and  I  was 
trembling  like  a  leaf. 

"  No ;  but  she  had  intended  to  do  so.  She  was  finally 
acquitted.  The  trial  brought  out  some  interesting  per- 
sonal details  which  created  a  general  sympathy  for  her. 
I  think  she  had  known  some  relative  of  the  bride.  I 
am  not  sure,  though.  I  remember  at  the  time  that  I 
was  very  curious  to  see  the  woman,  but  I  could  not  get 
into  the  courtroom.  Now,  it  would  be  a  strange  coin- 
cidence if  she  should  be  the  same  woman  you  knew. 
Do  you  think  she  was  ?  " 

The  agony  of  this  reminiscence  made  me  a  coward. 
I  couldn't  talk  of  it,  so  I  answered  dryly: 

"  I  think  not." 

"Well,  at  any  rate,"  he  continued,  "there's  a  very 
good  example  of  the  way  in  which  a  woman  looks  at 
love.  She  can't  accept  it  as  something  necessarily 
transitory,  an  appetite  that  dies  in  the  satisfaction.  No, 
she  wants  to  eternize  it,  and  you  may  as  well  try  to 
eternize  the  lightning  flash.  Love  is  not  a  normal  con- 
dition; it  is  a  temporary  exaltation,  a  fever  of  youth 
that  usually  passes  with  it,  unless  one  has  the  poetic 
temperament." 

"  What  do  you  understand  by  the  poetic  tempera- 
ment?" 

"  The  emotional  temperament :  the  temperament  in 
which  the  feminine  element  in  character  dominates.  For 


A   NEW  ACQUAINTANCE  151 

tfiere  are  a  great  many  men  who  lack  the  mental  char- 
acteristics of  virility,  just  as  there  are  a  few  women 
whose  minds  have  a  masculine  vigor,  uncommon  in  their 
sex.  You  are  a  reader  of  sentimental  novels,  and  not  an 
observer  of  real  life  if  you  believe  that  the  absorbing 
loves  of  which  literature  has  given  us  so  many  exam- 
ples are  at  all  common.  All  these  rainbow  tints  of  the 
imagination,  given  to  a  very  natural  appetite,  are  en- 
tirely wanting  in  the  great  majority  of  men.  It  is  to 
women  that  we  owe  their  general  recognition.  For 
them  it  is  easier  to  love  with  the  mind  than  with  the 
senses,  and  they  are  bent  upon  teaching  us  to  love  in 
the  same  way.  But  nature  isn't  at  all  interested  in  this 
enterprise,  and  the  day  on  which  all  become  platonic 
lovers  we  shall  be  on  the  eve  of  extermination." 

He  was  silent,  lit  his  pipe  again,  leaned  back  in  his 
chair  and  looked  at  the  fire.  I  scanned  the  energetic, 
handsome  profile  a  moment,  and  thought  how  cruel  the 
fate  of  any  woman  must  be  who  would  love  him.  Was 
there  a  feminine  fiber  in  me  that  revolted  at  his  words? 

"  And  you  ?  "  he  said  suddenly.  "  Of  course  you're 
dead  against  me." 

"  Well,"  I  replied  with  some  hesitation,  "  I  don't  think 
I  should  make  the  sweeping  assertion  that  love  is  noth- 
ing but  an  appetite.  I  should  say  that  it  is  the  recog- 
nition of  incompleteness,  the  powerlessness  to  find  one's 
happiness  alone;  and  the  ideal  of  culture  is  to  be  self- 
sufficient.  That  is  all  I  know  about  it.  But  as  for 
women,  I  don't  share  your  contempt  for  them.  It  is 
they  who  bear  the  burden  that  love  entails;  and  for 
that  we  owe  them  help  and  comfort.  It  is  they  alone 
who  know  the  strength  of  love  in  its  absolute  purity 
and  want  of  egotism.  Outside  of  books,  I  have  known 
no  Pere  Goriots,  but  mothers  are  everywhere.  And  I 
don't  blame  them  for  trying  to  escape  the  empty  monot- 
ony of  that  obscure,  trivial  life  of  the  house-corner 
which  you  yourself  think  so  infinitely  dreary.  They, 
too,  have  a  right  to  be  self-sufficient  and  masters  of 


152        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

their  own  happiness.  And  to  be  that,  they  have  the 
same  right  as  we  to  a  role  in  active  life ;  but  I  confess 
that,  like  you,  I  do  have  a  little  fear  of  their  leaning 
towards  superstitions." 

"And  you  have  good  reason  for  that  fear,  for  that 
penchant  is  ineradicable.  It  comes  from  their  need  to 
love  and  to  believe  themselves  loved,  if  not  by  any 
human  creature  around  them,  then  by  some  invisible 
creatures  that  their  fancy  creates.  And  what  cowards 
they  are !  always  listening  to  '  they  say,'  always  molding 
their  conscience  to  the  shape  of  popular  opinion,  never 
seeing  below  surfaces,  capable  of  denying  Jesus  Christ 
if  he  squinted,  or  had  a  bowleg." 

"  Oh,  pardon  me — you  are  quite  mistaken.  You  forget 
Wilkes's  host  of  female  admirers  and  the  reply  of  one 
of  them  to  the  criticism  that  he  squinted :  '  Oh,  not  any 
more  than  a  man  ought  to  squint.'  And  you've  forgot- 
ten your  Shakespeare,  man! — and  Richard  the  hunch- 
back: 

"  Was  ever  woman  in  this  humor  wooed  ? 
Was   ever  woman   in   this   humor   won  ? " 

"  No,  Graham.  That's  just  the  other  side  of  the  same 
flimsy  shield.  Tongue-led,  as  I  said,  fickle  as  flies! 
You're  a  wise  man  to  hold  them  at  a  safe  distance;  for 
by  all  I  know  of  men,  you  have  all  the  marks  of  a 
victim  about  you.  Do  you  never  tire  of  your  life  in  the 
woods  here  ?  " 

"  No,  never.  I  feel  rooted  among  these  pines  and 
oaks,  now.  Far  from  being  satiated,  I  find  new  pharms 
every  day.  I  think,  now,  that  I  couldn't  be  happy  else- 
where." 

"  Ah,  that's  because  you've  a  bit  of  the  poet  in  you. 
How  happy  one  must  be  whose  heart  and  mind  see  all 
things  new,  the  hundredth  time ;  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
you  must  be  susceptible  to  a  great  many  griefs  that  I 
have  never  known,  and  will  never  know.  I  find  that 
everything  is  paid  for  in  this  world.  We  never  hold 


A   NEW  ACQUAINTANCE  153 

anything  valuable  that  hasn't  cost  us  something.  Well, 
I  shall  be  leaving  you,  one  of  these  days,  in  search  of 
fresh  fields  and  pastures  new;  but  I  shall  always  re- 
member with  pleasure  these  fireside  chats  with  you. 
After  all,  there  isn't  anything  much  better  in  life  than 
a  real  conversation,  where  there  is  give  and  take,  and 
absolute  sincerity  on  both  sides." 

Nearly  two  years  have  elapsed  since  this  conversa- 
tion, and  though  I  saw  him  several  times  again,  before 
he  went  away,  I  have  often  recalled  it  as  if  it  had  been 
our  last.  There  was  something  of  condescension  in  his 
attitude  towards  me,  mingled  at  times  with  an  expres- 
sion of  regard.  On  the  whole,  I  think  he  liked  me, 
or,  at  any  rate,  trusted  me.  He  liked  to  utter  his  ideas, 
and  I  was  a  good  listener;  but  there  were  times  after 
a  conversation  with  him  when  I  thought  less  of  our 
race  and  more  of  this  silent  nature  over  which  the  good 
and  bad  days  passed  without  eliciting  either  a  smile 
or  a  sigh.  With  all  his  contempt  for  society,  he  was 
not  independent  of  it.  A  life  which  has  no  other  aim 
than  pleasure  wants  a  fixed  center  about  which  it  can 
tranquilly  turn.  It  rushes  headlong  like  a  meteor,  that 
traverses  space  in  a  self-kindled  blaze,  and  falls  at  last 
as  a  heavy  stone. 

But  while  I  am  judging  my  brother,  an  inner  voice 
reproves  me  sharply,  and  asks  me: 

What  are  you  doing  with  your  own  life? 

What  aim  are  you  proposing  for  yourself? 

You  wished  to  broaden,  strengthen  your  own  mind, 
to  find  in  it  the  happiness  which  had  escaped  you.  You 
have  despised  the  soul  that  limits  its  desires  to  the 
massing  up  of  money.  But  the  soul  that  amasses  the 
riches  of  thought  and  feeling  is  in  duty  bound  to  ex- 
tend their  influence.  The  miser  who  has  hoarded  and 
concealed  his  treasures  all  his  life  enriches  somebody 
at  his  death;  his  egotism,  then,  is  not  so  far-reaching 
as  that  of  the  man  who  conceals  the  treasures  of  his 
heart  and  mind,  for  they  perish  with  him. 


154       THE  JOURNAL  OF  A  RECLUSE 

But  what  riches  have  I  found  that  I  could  share  with 
another?  Is  it  a  heart  free  from  all  bonds  that  can 
deeply  wound  it,  so  that  its  joys  and  sorrows  hence- 
forth come  from  itself?  That  would  be  the  dreariest 
poverty,  in  the  eyes  of  most  people. 

Is  it  a  mind  open  on  all  sides,  fearless,  assimilative,, 
quenchless  in  its  thirst  to  know?  That  requires  leisure 
— and,  it  may  be,  natural  capacity. 

And,  after  all,  what  a  proud,  vain  boast  to  say  that 
I  am  free  from  all  ties,  when  the  past  can  still  make 
my  heart  tremble  with  pain  or  with  joy,  and  when  at 
this  very  moment  I  am  stifling  a  cry  in  the  depths  of 
it  for  human  companionship,  human  love!  There!  1 
have  written  it  out  plainly.  He  is  a  coward  who  lies 
to  other  men;  but  he  who  lies  to  himself  is  not  only 
a  coward,  but  a  fool.  And  why  should  I  lie  to  myself? 
This  is  the  meaning  of  that  strange  restlessness  which 
drives  me  here  and  there.  The  breath  of  spring  has 
set  the  sap  of  life  to  stirring  in  leaf  and  branch,  and 
I  feel  it  mount  in  me,  too.  I  wish  to  live  deeper,  deeper, 
even  at  the  price  of  pain!  There,  I  feel  better,  having 
written  it  out;  but  mon  Dieu!  what  folly!  what  folly! 
to  be  attacked  with  the  malady  of  youth  at  forty — to 
want  better  bread  than  white  bread,  sweeter  honey  than 
the  bees  make — wings  instead  of  feet!  What!  do  I 
really  wish  to  find  happiness  elsewhere  than  in  tran- 
quility  and  work?  Do  I  wish  to  recommence  all  the 
pain  of  the  past?  No,  it  is  recalling  it  all  in  detail  in 
this  way  that  has  set  my  pulses  throbbing  feverishly. 
I  could  never  love  again  as  I  loved  her.  The  power 
to  love  is  dead  in  me,  and  how  happy  I  am,  when  all 
my  wretchedness  is  nothing  but  a  passing  restlessness, 
which  an  hour  in  my  garden  with  a  hoe  and  a  spade  will 
quickly  dissipate!  How  sane  work  makes  a  man! 
Leisure  is  the  mother  of  all  the  follies.  No — I  have 
reached  the  summit  of  the  hill  of  life.  I  have  the 
western  sun  in  my  face,  the  shadows  lie  all  behind  me. 
I  am  master  of  my  fate. 


PART  II 
AFTERNOON  AND  EVENING 


CHAPTER   I 

A  VOICE   FROM    THE   PAST 

November   16,  18— -, 

I  HAVE  just  read  over  the  preceding  page,  written 
thirty  years  ago.  How  young,  and  how  full  of  the 
pride  and  confidence  of  youth  it  is,  although  it  was 
written  long  after  youth  had  passed!  To-day,  I  could 
not  write  so  confidently,  if  I  knew  I  were  to  die  to- 
morrow. Shouldn't  I  have  one  day  still  before  me? 
and  isn't  my  old  heart  still  capable  of  feeling  pain  at 
the  death  or  the  grief  of  those  whom  I  love? 

No,  man  is  never  master  of  his  fate,  and  it  is  well 
that  he  isn't.  I  ought  to  record  that  here  and  prove  it. 
To  finish  with  an  air  of  triumph  like  that  is  to  falsify 
the  truth.  Life  is  a  growth;  it  isn't  finished  at  forty. 
Sometimes  it  is  only  well  begun.  I  like  these  sturdy 
lines  of  Browning's,  perhaps  the  cheeriest  he  has  ever 
written : 

"  Grow  old  along  with  me ! 
The  best  is  yet  to  be, 

The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first  was  made: 
Our  times  are  in  His  hand 
Who  saith  'A  whole  I  planned, 
'  Youth  shows  but  half ;  trust  God :  see  all,  nor  be  afraid ! ' 

"  Then,  welcome  each  rebuff 
That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough, 
Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit,  nor  stand  but  go! 
Be  our  joy  three  parts  pain! 
Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain; 
Learn,  nor  account  the  pang;  dare,  never  grudge  the  throe!  " 

Perhaps  I  should  do  better  to  destroy  this  little  rec- 
ord of  my  life,  but  I  have  not  the  courage.  It  is  a 
part  of  me,  and  to  destroy  it  would  be  a  kind  of  suicide 


158        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

of  which  I  am  not  capable.  No,  I  will  finish  the  record. 
That  will  be  an  occupation  for  these  gloomy  days  of 
rain  and  wind  that  keep  me  indoors  longer  than  I  like. 
My  memory  is  still  green,  though  my  sun  is  touching 
the  horizon;  and  I  will  go  back,  now,  where  I  left  off. 
Two  weeks  after  finishing  the  little  record  of  my  life, 
I  received  a  letter  which  read  as  follows: 

"  MY  DEAR  UNCLE, 

"  I  am  going  to  give  you  a  great  surprise,  but  I 
hope  that  it  will  not  be  an  unpleasant  one.  I  am  coming 
to  see  you;  coming  to  live  with  you;  yes,  I  really  am, 
and  I  wish  you  knew  just  how  much  pleasure  the 
thought  of  it  gives  me.  Now,  don't  think  that  it  is 
just  a  girl's  caprice  which  has  moved  me  to  such  a 
resolution.  No,  I  have  thought  it  all  over  very  seri- 
ously. I  have  been  wearying  here  a  long  time,  since 
dear  mother's  death;  and  it  was  she,  herself,  who  first 
gave  me  the  idea  of  it. 

"  A  few  days  before  her  death  she  was  talking  quietly 
with  me  of  my  future,  when  she  would  be  gone.  *  You 
will  be  very,  very  lonely  for  a  while,'  she  said.  '  You 
have  an  affectionate  nature,  you  need  to  love  and  to  be 
loved,  but  there  is  no  one  to  whom  I  should  like  to  see 
you  give  your  life  at  present;  besides,  marriage  ought 
not  to  be  entered  upon  hastily,  even  when  love  urges 
one.  There  are  so  many  other  things  to  think  of  be- 
sides love,  but  we  think  of  nothing  else  when  we  are 
young.  Your  father  and  I  made  a  love  match,  and  you 
see  how  it  has  turned  out.'  She  was  holding  my  hand 
and  she  pressed  it,  and  tried  to  smile  bravely, — poor 
dear  mother !  '  If  your  uncle  weren't  so  far  away,  your 
Uncle  George,  I  mean,  I  should  say:  Go  to  him,  be  a 
comfort  to  his  old  age,  cheer  his  home  with  loving 
kindness.  I  have  not  seen  him  since  he  became  a  man, 
but  if  he  has  kept  the  promise  of  his  boyhood  he  has 
a  warm  big  heart  and  a  quick  mind.  You  would  not 
weary  with  him,  he  is  a  great  student,  a  great  traveler, 


A  VOICE   FROM   THE   PAST  159 

and  if  he  can  find  happiness  in  a  wilderness,  it  is  be- 
cause he  carries  it  with  him.  But  he  is  too  far  away. 
What  a  pity!  You  would  be  a  great  comfort  to  each 
other  I  am  sure.  You  would  be  a  loving  daughter  to 
him,  as  you  have  been  to  me;  and  you  would  know  in 
him  what  a  father's  tender  care  is.* 

"  Dear,  dear  Uncle,  I  cannot  tell  you  how  many 
times  I  have  thought  of  her  words,  till  they  have  come 
to  be  a  sort  of  inspiration  urging  me  to  action.  Too 
far?  For  cowards,  yes;  but  I  am  not  a  coward.  I 
have  some  of  your  blood  in  my  veins;  and  I  can  go 
where  you  have  gone;  and  I  can  live  where  you  have 
lived.  I  shall  love  your  pines  and  oaks  far,  far  better 
than  the  dust  and  grime  of  this  great  city  of  Glasgow. 
And  I  shall  not  be  solitary  where  you  are,  for  I  love 
you,  though  I  have  never  seen  you.  You  have  revealed 
much  of  yourself  in  your  letters,  alas!  too  rare;  and  I 
shall  know  how  to  make  you  love  me.  I  am  not  one 
of  your  gay  society  girls;  dear  mother  was  an  invalid 
all  her  life,  after  my  birth ;  and  I  have  tried  to  be  some 
recompense  by  taking  care  of  her.  That  has  made  me 
more  serious  than  most  young  women  are.  I  love  books, 
too,  and  I  shall  try  to  share  your  tastes  and  mingle  my 
solitude  with  yours  in  a  sweet  filial  affection.  You  will 
be  my  father,  I  shall  be  your  daughter.  And  yet  in 
that  word,  father,  there  may  be  a  suggestion  that  will 
frighten  you.  Don't  misunderstand  me,  please.  I  shall 
never  be  a  burden  on  you.  My  mother  has  left  me 
enough  to  be  •  independent,  in  a  very  modest  way,  of 
course;  but,  still,  independent.  It  is  not  therefore  a 
refuge  I  am  seeking  with  you,  it  is  not  charity  that  I 
want.  No — shall  I  be  quite  frank  with  you?  It  is  a 
care  that  I  want;  someone  to  whose  happiness  I  can  be 
necessary.  You  don't  need  me?  You  have  everything 
you  want?  Wait!  wait!  The  sun  does  not  shine  every 
day.  You  must  have  had  days  of  illness,  days  of  sad- 
ness ;  or  if  you  haven't,  you  will  have  them,  for  nobody 
escapes  them,  and  on  such  a  day,  you  will  say,  '  O  if 


160        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

I  only  had  somebody  here  to  give  me  a  glass  of  water, 
to  smooth  my  pillow — to  care  the  least  in  the  world, 
whether  I  live  or  die.' 

"Well,  dearest,  I  want  to  be  that  somebody — that 
faithful,  untiring  nurse,  that  careful  housekeeper,  who 
knows  how  to  direct  affairs.  Because,  although  I  am 
a  bit  romantic  (at  least  mother  always  said  I  was), 
and  a  bit  of  a  dreamer,  building  for  myself  a  thou- 
sand pretty  castles  in  Spain,  my  feet  patter  very  solidly 
over  the  humble  floors  of  my  home,  and  my  hands  do 
not  love  idleness.  And,  then,  I  am  not  a  child.  I  am 
twenty-three,  you  know. 

"  But  you  are  a  little  proud,  aren't  you  ?  and  you 
dread  very  much  seeing  a  young  woman  start  out  alone 
on  so  long  a  journey,  don't  you?  And  I  must  not 
think  of  coming,  must  I?  You  see,  I  anticipate  all 
your  objections,  and  in  order  to  avoid  being  disobedi- 
ent, I  must  start  out  at  once;  and  the  day  you  get 
this  letter  I  shall  be  under  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  and, 
God  willing,  not  so  far  away  but  that  in  a  few  hours, 
or  days,  at  the  longest,  I  can  send  you  a  line  saying: 
Meet  me  at  such  and  such  a  train. 

"  All  my  arrangements  are  made.  I  have  made  all  the 
necessary  inquiries  about  reaching  you.  My  trunk  is 
packed,  my  ticket  bought.  I  have  nothing  to  do  but 
wait  the  arrival  of  the  steamer,  and  to  say  to  you:  I 
am  coming.  /  am  coming. 

"  P.  S. — I  forgot  to  say  that  I  have  remembered  the 
request  you  made  in  one  of  your  letters  for  some  seed 
of  the  broom  and  whin.  I  shall  bring  you  a  little  box 
full  of  seeds;  and  we  shall  plant  them  together,  and 
watch  them  grow." 

I  do  not  know  which  emotion  was  the  stronger  in 
me  after  finishing  this  letter — astonishment  or  anger; 
but  it  was  anger  that,  in  the  end,  gained  the  upper 
hand. 

"What  an  insufferably  impertinent  woman!"  I  said 


A   VOICE   FROM   THE   PAST  161 

to  myself.  "  How  in  the  world  did  she  get  it  into  her 
head  that  I  was  so  decrepit  and  old  that  I  needed  a 
guardian?  or  such  an  idiot  that  I  could  not  be  company 
for  myself  without  weariness?"  And  here,  I  believe, 
that  a  mild  oath  escaped  me,  and  that  if  my  amiable 
niece  could  have  seen  me,  she  would  have  gone  to  the 
end  of  the  world  rather  than  to  me. 

"  Crazy  creature ! "  I  continued  in  .my  mental  ejac- 
ulations. "  What  shall  I  do  with  her  ?  I  have  only  one 
room,  and  what  with  my  books  and  other  things,  it 
isn't  a  bit  too  large  for  me,  and  I  don't  want  to  divide 
it  by  a  partition.  No,  I'll  take  her  to  a  tavern,  show 
her  a  little  courtesy,  for  the  sake  of  her  mother,  and 
then  send  her  back  where  she  came  from.  Ordinarily, 
a  woman  of  twenty-three  is  more  of  a  girl  than  a 
woman;  but  at  any  rate  she  has  some  sense  of  decency, 
and  doesn't  take  a  door  off  its  hinges  to  get  into  a 
house;  but  this  one  has  half  a  century  of  brazenness. 
She  thinks  I  mean  to  father  it?  No,  my  daughter, 
there'll  be  no  mingling  of  solitudes  in  this  case.  I'll 
do  my  own  pillow-adjusting,  if  you  please,  and  get  my 
own  glasses  of  water;  and  your  little  feet  won't  ache 
from  all  the  pattering  they  get  on  my  floors."  So  ru- 
minating, my  first  anger  passed  away  in  a  sudden  con- 
sciousness of  the  absurdity  of  the  whole  thing.  It 
seemed  a  huge  joke.  I  had  a  good  laugh  at  myself,  and 
then  I  tried  to  forget  it.  But  in  spite  of  all  that  I  could 
do,  the  fact  that  she  was  on  the  way  to  me  would  in- 
trude itself  disagreeably,  and  I  went  to  town  morning 
and  evening  in  search  of  the  dreaded  letter  that  was 
to  announce  her  arrival.  At  last  it  came,  putting  an 
end  to  my  suspense  and  exciting  my  mirth  by  an  ex- 
pression of  solicitude  about  me,  couched  in  such  terms 
that  it  was  very  evident  to  me  that  she  imagined  that 
I  was  an  infirm  old  man.  My  vanity  was  a  little  piqued 
at  that,  and  I  took  more  than  ordinary  pains  with  my 
dress  in  preparing  to  meet  her.  I  wore  a  black  mus- 
tache; and  my  hair  of  the  same  color  hadn't  a  white 


162        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

thread  in  it.  My  perfect  health,  the  regularity  and 
tranquility  of  my  life  made  me  look  much  younger  than 
I  really  was.  I  had  bought  a  new  straw  hat  and  a  light- 
colored  cravat,  and,  in  a  new  suit  of  well-fitting  clothes, 
had  rather  a  spruce  air,  intending  thereby  to  give  my 
affectionate  niece  her  first  lesson  in  the  folly  of  leap- 
ing to  conclusions. 

As  to  her  appearance,  I  tried  to  form  some  idea  of 
it  by  recalling  what  her  mother  had  been,  but  could 
evoke  no  other  image  than  that  of  a  robust,  florid  young 
woman,  like  so  many  of  the  women  of  our  moist,  north- 
ern country,  with  the  energetic,  bold,  masculine  air  of 
the  young  women  of  our  day. 

Therefore,  I  really  cannot  say  which  of  us  was  the 
more  surprised,  I,  to  see  descend  from  the  car  at  the 
station  a  slender,  graceful  young  girl  with  a  quantity 
of  rich  brown  hair  and  a  very  pretty,  attractive  face 
that  turned  rose  red  when  her  eyes  met  mine;  or  she, 
searching  with  her  eyes  among  a  few  old  men,  idling 
about  the  platform,  for  her  uncle,  who  was  to  meet  her 
and  who  did  not  come,  and  shrinking  timidly  from  me 
when  I  approached  her  to  ask: 

"  Excuse  me,  but  are  you  Miss  Abby  Crawford  ? " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  she  answered,  "  I  was  expecting  my 
uncle,  Mr.  Graham,  whom  I  do  not  know  by  sight; 
perhaps  he  has  sent  you  for  me  ?  " 

I  do  not  know  what  diabolical  idea  of  playing  a 
trick  on  her  came  suddenly  into  my  head,  for  without 
thinking  at  all,  I  gravely  replied: 

"  Yes,  Miss,  he  has  given  me  that  pleasure.  He  is 
not  able  to  come  after  you  to-day,  and  wishes  me  to 
take  you  to  a  tavern." 

"  He  is  ill,"  she  said  with  consternation,  then  ex- 
citedly, as  if  talking  to  herself,  rather  than  to  me,  "  Oh, 
I  knew  it  very  well.  There  was  a  something,  I  don't 
know  what,  which  impelled  me  to  come;  as  if  I  had 
seen  him  ill  and  needing  me," — then  more  quietly,  and 
with  great  firmness,  she  said — "No,  sir,  I  shall  not  go 


A   VOICE   FROM   THE   PAST  163 

to  a  tavern.  Will  you  please  take  me  directly  to 
him?" 

I  could  not  help  smiling;  there  was  such  a  pretty 
expression  of  anxiety  and  sympathy  in  the  sweet  face 
looking  up  into  mine. 

"  I  beg  of  you,  Miss  Crawford,  don't  have  the  least 
anxiety,"  I  hastened  to  say.  "  He  isn't  at  all  ill,  I 
assure  you.  In  fact,  he  is  as  well  as  I  am;  but  he 
isn't  at  home  just  now;  but  counts  on  being  at  home 
to-morrow,  and  you  will  see  him  then." 

"  Oh ! "  she  answered,  evidently  disconcerted.  "  He 
knew  that  I  was  to  come  to-day,  or  he  couldn't  have 
sent  you  for  me.  I  don't  understand  it." 

"  Well,  I  am  very  sure  he  will  explain  it  satisfactorily 
when  you  see  him.  You  didn't  give  him  time  to  pre- 
pare for  you.  You  know,  or  rather  you  don't  know, 
that  his  whole  house  consists  of  only  one  room." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  see,"  she  answered,  rather  dejectedly,  I 
thought.  "  I  am  afraid  I  shall  inconvenience  him  at 
first,  and  I  really  didn't  mean  to  put  him  to  the  least 
trouble." 

"  And  you  aren't — he'll  be  delighted  to  see  you.  You 
have  a  trunk  ?  " 

"Yes,  here's  the  check." 

I  took  it,  along  with  a  small  valise  that  she  carried 
in  her  hand,  and  conducted  her  to  the  waiting-room, 
while  I  went  to  see  after  her  trunk. 

I  confess  that  for  a  brief  moment  the  idea  came  to 
me  to  have  it  sent  out  at  once  to  my  home,  but  I  dis- 
missed it  as  puerile  and  untenable.  I  really  couldn't 
accommodate  her  at  present,  and  was  I  really  willing 
to  do  so?  I  wasn't  prepared  yet  to  say  yes;  although 
the  agreeable  surprise  she  was  to  me  was  working  very 
much  in  her  favor. 

I  returned  to  the  waiting-room. 

"The  tavern  isn't  far  from  the  station,  Miss  Craw- 
ford. It  won't  take  more  than  five  minutes  to  walk 
over  to  it." 


164        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A  RECLUSE 

She  rose  from  the  bench  saying :  "  I  am  really  very 
sorry  to  give  you  this  trouble." 

"  Excuse  me ;  it  isn't  a  trouble,  it's  a  pleasure,  and 
I  hope  that  I  may  be  fortunate  enough  to  see  you 
again,  with  your  permission." 

A  blush  spread  over  her  face,  and  lowering  her  head 
a  little,  she  said  timidly: 

"  Do  you  know  my  uncle  very  well  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  know  him  as  well  as  any  man  can  know 
another." 

Here  my  conscience  commenced  to  make  me  feel  a 
little  uneasy.  Had  she  been  the  impertinent,  forward 
creature  I  expected,  I  should  have  taken  a  malicious 
pleasure  in  deceiving  her,  but  it  seemed  really  too  bad 
to  trick  a  modest,  trusting  girl;  so  to  avoid  any  more 
Compromising  questions,  I  changed  the  subject  by 
saying : 

"  If  you  have  had  my  experience,  you  must  have  re- 
plied twenty  times  to  the  question  'How  do  you  like 
America  ? '  before  having  taken  as  many  steps  on  its 
soil ;  so  I'll  vary  the  question  a  little  by  asking  you  how 
you  expect  to  find  life  in  a  forest  supportable,  after  the 
variety  and  movement  of  a  great  city  like  Glasgow  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know  me.  You  can't  imagine  how 
tired  I  was  of  that  variety,  which  so  soon  ceases  to  be 
agreeable  and  becomes  only  confusion.  I  am  really  so 
glad  to  exchange  all  those  endless  lines  of  brick  walls 
and  the  broken  glimpses  of  sky  for  these  beautiful  trees, 
this  uncultivated  soil,  and  that  broad  stretch  of  blue 
above  me.  My  uncle  lives  right  in  the  heart  of  a 
forest,  doesn't  he?" 

"  Yes ;  of  course,  he  has  cleared  off  a  good  bit  of 
land  for  gardens  and  orchards,  but  there's  no  other 
roof  in  sight  of  his  own." 

"  How  pure  the  air  is  here,"  she  continued.  "  All 
along  the  road  I  kept  the  car- window  open  just  to  have 
that  odor  of  the  woods  about  me.  I  never  saw  such 
magnificent  trees  before.  I  have  seen  nothing  but  parks 


A  VOICE   FROM   THE   PAST  165 

at  home,  you  know ;  and  I  had  no  idea  how  beautifully 
tangled  and  wild  an  untouched  forest  is.  I  longed  to  be 
out  in  it.  But  just  look  there!  What  a  pity!  I  am  all 
turned  round.  The  sun  is  setting  in  the  east  and  I  shall 
see  it  rise  in  the  west ! " 

She  had  stopped  a  moment  to  look  at  the  sky,  mag- 
nificently colored  with  sunset  hues,  and  I  very  nearly 
betrayed  myself  by  telling  her  what  splendid  sunset  views 
I  had  at  home  looking  out  over  the  bay.  The  crickets 
commenced  to  chirp  in  the  grass.  The  dewy  freshness 
of  evening  filled  the  air,  and  the  dust  lay  damp  and 
heavy  on  the  roads.  For  fear  of  being  greeted  by  the 
villagers,  who  all  knew  me,  I  had  avoided  the  main 
street,  and  taken  an  unfrequented  by-path  that  ran  along 
a  clover-field,  from  which  rose  a  delightful  odor,  and 
I  am  sure  that  she  exchanged  it  as  reluctantly  as  I,  for 
the  narrow  plank  sidewalk  that  led  to  the  village  inn. 

I  had  already  engaged  a  room  for  her  the  day  before, 
and  in  giving  her  over  to  the  charge  of  the  porter,  I 
took  my  departure  rather  brusquely,  assuring  her  that 
I  would  call  in  the  morning  about  eleven  o'clock  to 
conduct  her  to  her  uncle's.  She  thanked  me  heartily, 
hesitating  after  the  word  Mr.,  as  if  she  expected  me  to 
announce  my  name,  but  I  did  not  do  it. 

I  went  into  the  village  immediately  to  buy  provisions 
for  the  morrow ;  and  putting  them  all  together  in  a  large 
basket,  I  started  home.  A  singular  exhilaration  had 
taken  possession  of  me,  something  like  the  hope  and 
light-heartedness  of  youth,  and  a  sensation  of  super- 
fluous physical  energy  that  made  me  very  glad  to  have 
a  good  three  miles'  stretch  of  road  before  me.  And 
what  a  delicious  walk  it  was!  one  of  those  beautiful 
hours  that  grow  rarer  as  we  grow  older,  in  which  we 
are  hardly  conscious  of  the  body,  except  as  the  senses 
serve  the  mind.  Never  before  had  I  felt  so  intimate  a 
joy  in  the  depths  of  these  woods;  never  before  felt 
myself  so  closely  one  with  all  this  exuberant  life.  The 
dense  shade  cooled  my  flushed  face,  the  herbs  crushed 


166        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

by  my  feet  exhaled  an  aromatic  odor.  Sometimes  a 
bird  uttered  a  melodious  cry  over  my  head,  sometimes  a 
squirrel  darted  across  my  path,  then  stopped  to  look  at 
me,  its  bushy  tail  curved  over  its  back,  its  black  eyes 
sparkling  like  two  glass  beads;  and  I,  too,  stopped  to 
look  at  it,  and  smile,  as  if  it  were  something  human, 
that  knew  my  heart  was  overflowing  with  tenderness 
and  joy.  Who  can  tell  the  cause  of  these  sudden  re- 
newals of  feeling  in  us,  after  days  and  weeks  of  stag- 
nation? Is  the  source  of  them  weakness  or  strength? 
I  shouldn't  ask  the  question,  if  I  had  not  observed  that 
these  exaltations  are  followed  by  corresponding  depres- 
sions ;  and  that  the  normal  condition  of  mind  is  not  one 
of  emotion  but  of  tranquility.  But  whether  they  be 
of  morbid  origin  or  only  the  superb  expression  of  per- 
fect health,  they  are  none  the  less  exquisite  hours,  in 
which  we  seem  to  condense  more  of  life  than  in  weeks 
of  an  ordinary  existence.  My  eyes,  so  long  unused  to 
tears,  grew  dim  from  time  to  time,  with  pure  excess  of 
feeling;  not  thoughts,  but  vague  dreams  and  memories 
of  my  youth  crowded  upon  me  thick  and  fast,  and  I 
was  astonished  to  find  myself  at  home  so  soon. 

I  opened  the  door  of  my  little  log  hut,  asking  my- 
self how  it  would  look  to  a  woman,  and  answered  my- 
self at  once,  that  it  looked  bare.  Having  discovered  that 
my  pretty  Indian  rugs  required  a  good  deal  of  shaking 
and  cleaning  to  keep  them  presentable,  I  had  taken  them 
from  the  floor  and  put  them  away  in  a  large  trunk. 
I  got  them  out  at  once  and  laid  them  down  again;  and 
they  added  a  touch  of  comfort  and  brightness  to  the 
room.  But  the  huge  fireplace  that  in  winter  lighted 
and  warmed  the  whole  room,  yawned  very  black  and 
dreary  along  the  western  wall ;  and  I  reflected  some  time 
before  I  could  solve  the  problem  of  transforming  that 
dark  chasm  into  a  thing  of  beauty.  My  eyes  wandering 
about  the  room,  encountered  a  fine,  large,  clay  water-jar 
of  Indian  workmanship,  very  prettily  ornamented  with 
a  geometrical  pattern  in  white  and  brown;  and  it  sud- 


A   VOICE   FROM   THE   PAST  167 

denly  flashed  over  me  that  I  might  fill  it  with  the  large 
spreading  branches  of  the  huckleberry,  growing  here 
into  a  very  handsome  shrub  with  small,  bright,  glossy 
leaves  and  pretty,  reddish-brown  stems.  I  went  after 
it  immediately,  and  soon  returned  with  my  arms  full, 
put  it  into  the  jar,  which  I  placed  in  the  center  of  the 
fireplace.  It  added  just  the  touch  of  beauty  and  grace 
wanting,  and  I  couldn't  forbear  thinking  how  pleasant 
it  would  be  to  have  somebody  near  to  whom  I  could 
say :  "  Now,  doesn't  that  look  pretty  ?  " 

I  liked  the  effect  so  much  that  I  thought  I  might 
enliven  other  parts  of  the  room  with  a  green  sprig  here 
and  there.  I  cut  some  graceful  branches  from  the  pine 
with  pretty  clusters  of  cones  and  tacked  them  on  the 
wall.  As  I  prefer  the  wild  flowers  to  the  cultivated 
ones,  I  determined  to  rise  early  the  next  morning  and 
scour  the  woods  for  its  prettiest  treasures ;  for  I  thought 
they  would  give  a  more  harmonious  effect  to  the  room 
and  its  rustic  furnishings  than  the  garden  flowers.  I 
had  suddenly  grown  critical  and  fastidious,  for  I  wished 
the  room  to  please  her.  I  even  went  so  far  as  to  dust 
my  books  with  a  cloth,  a  proceeding  to  which  they 
were  not  at  all  accustomed,  for  my  method  of  dusting 
under  ordinary  circumstances  was  simply  to  blow  the 
dust  off  the  one  book  which  I  happened  to  take  down 
from  its  shelf. 

I  went  to  bed  much  later  than  usual,  but  I  couldn't 
sleep.  The  sweet  exaltation  continued,  and  I  heard  my 
clock  strike  three  before  I  fell  asleep  to  dream  that  I 
was  a  boy  again,  traveling  in  Switzerland  with  the  com- 
panions of  my  youth.  I  thought  that  Richard  Glenn, 
Lady  Margaret  and  I  were  scaling  a  mountain,  when 
we  saw  projecting  from  a  ledge  of  rock  on  a  steep  and 
difficult  descent  a  bunch  of  brilliantly-colored  flowers. 
Lady  Margaret  uttered  a  cry  of  admiration,  and  clapped 
her  hands  with  pleasure.  I  rushed  forward,  bent  upon 
getting  them  for  her,  when  she  turned  quite  pale,  beg- 
ging me  not  to  attempt  so  difficult  a  thing,  which  meant, 


168        THE  JOURNAL  OF  A  RECLUSE 

perhaps,  the  risk  of  my  life.  But  I  was  intoxicated  with" 
the  thought  that  she  cared  even  so  little  for  me,  and  I 
resolved  to  show  her  that  her  slightest  wish  was  more 
to  me  than  life.  I  took  another  step  forward,  and 
felt  the  ground  crumble  beneath  my  feet.  My  head 
struck  the  rock,  a  dazzling  light  flashed  before  my  eyes ; 
and  with  that,  I  awoke,  to  hear  my  clock  striking  six, 
and  the  sun  shining  full  upon  my  face.  My  head  ached. 
I  moved  my  pillow  out  of  reach  of  the  shaft  of  sun- 
light. A  great  languor  invaded  me,  an  inexpressible 
sadness,  a  vague  sentiment  of  impending  ill;  then  all 
at  once  the  events  of  the  preceding  day  rushed  into  my 
mind.  I  leaped  from  my  bed,  took  a  cold  bath,  and 
before  breakfasting  struck  out  for  the  woods.  It  was 
a  magnificent  morning,  fresh,  dewy,  the  air  resinous 
and  tonic;  and  in  a  few  moments  my  headache  was 
gone,  and  I  was  quite  myself  again.  I  found  some 
superb  orchids  of  that  beautiful  kind  commonly  known 
as  the  moccasin  flower,  or  lady's  slipper,  with  the 
large,  inflated  lip  of  an  exquisite  whiteness  dashed 
with  spots  of  crimson.  What  a  pretty  sight  it  would 
be  to  a  little  lady  from  the  town.  Involuntarily  I 
smiled  with  pleasure,  anticipating  hers.  I  found,  too, 
some  beautiful  ferns  to  mingle  with  them  and  some 
delicate  trailing  vines  to  complete  my  decorations,  and 
came  back  home  happy  as  a  boy,  and  with  a  boy's  appe- 
tite, which  I  satisfied  with  some  soft-boiled  eggs,  bread 
and  butter,  and  a  good  cup  of  coffee. 

No  lady's  maid  could  have  taken  more  pains  to  make 
a  room  pretty  for  her  expected  mistress  than  I  to  make 
this  room  look  inviting  to  my  little  lady.  Strange! 
but  for  the  life  of  me  I  couldn't  think  of  her  as  my 
niece.  I  hadn't  been  able  to  trace  in  her  the  least  re- 
semblance to  her  mother,  and  it  had  been  so  long  since 
I  had  known  close  family  ties  that  I  felt  myself,  as  it 
were,  unrelated  to  anybody.  For  me,  therefore,  she 
was  only  a  pretty  young  woman,  unusually  attractive, 
because  of  a  certain  freshness  and  naivete  wholly  femi- 


A   VOICE   FROM   THE   PAST  169 

nine,  and  alas!  growing  rarer  and  rarer  from  our  pres- 
ent popular  systems  of  co-education.  The  thought  of 
receiving  her  into  my  home  as  a  companion  of  my  soli- 
tude, if  it  had  crossed  my  mind  as  a  possibility,  in 
the  curious  exaltation  of  the  evening  before,  seemed 
impossible  now  in  the  bright  light  of  morning.  But 
how  should  I  tell  her  so?  Would  she  herself  not  feel 
it  to  be  so,  when  she  learned  the  truth?  Well,  there 
was  nothing  to  do  but  leave  it  to  the  happy  solution 
of  chance,  which  has  a  trenchant  way  of  cutting  Gor- 
dian  knots  and  loosening  spells,  often  quite  superior  to 
the  clumsy  efforts  of  design. 

She  was  waiting  for  me  in  the  office  when  I  entered 
the  tavern.  She  had  put  on  a  pretty  dress  of  light 
blue  muslin,  trimmed  in  narrow  white  bands,  which  gave 
her  even  a  more  girlish  air  than  she  had  had  the  day 
before,  in  her  simple  gray  traveling  suit.  She  blushed 
as  she  held  out  her  little  hand  timidly  to  me,  saying: 

"  My  uncle  did  not  come  with  you  ?  I  thought  per- 
haps  " 

"  He  will  be  at  home  when  you  get  there,  and  will 
be  very  glad  to  see  you.  But  he  wishes  me  to  warn  you 
not  to  expect  elegance.  It  is  impossible  to  live  more 
simply  than  he  does." 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  answered,  "I  shall  like  it  the  better 
for  that.  But  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  hardly  slept  last 
night  for  thinking  that  I  may  have  done  the  most 
foolish  thing  in  the  world  to  come  here,  and  to  suppose 
that  I  could  be  any  comfort  or  help  to  him.  But  I 
love  him,  although  I  have  never  seen  him.  If  I  had 
known  where  to  find  him,  I  think  I  should  have  risen 
in  the  night  to  go  to  him.  It  seemed  such  an  age 
till  morning,  and  then  I  began  to  fear  that  perhaps  he 
wouldn't  like  me,  that  I  should  seem  a  stranger  to 
him.  Tell  me,  frankly,  do  you  think  I  could  please 
him?" 

She  looked  at  me  eagerly,  her  sweet  eyes  full  of 
tears,  her  pretty  mouth  trembling.  Think  how  it  moved 


170        THE  JOURNAL  OF  A  RECLUSE 

me!  I  hadn't  seen  a  woman's  tear  since  many  a  long 
year.  A  sudden  tenderness  for  her  filled  me.  I  should 
have  liked  to  pet  her  as  I  would  a  child,  and  I  said 
hastily : 

"  Of  course  you  will ;  you  would  please  anybody ;  but, 
although  he  isn't  a  heartless  old  man,  perhaps  he  will 
not  please  you.  You  have  made  for  yourself  an  imagin- 
ary uncle,  who  certainly  is  not  at  all  like  the  real  one. 
Perhaps  you  had  better  see  him  before  we  take  out 
your  trunk  and  your  valise."  I  saw  that  she  had  or- 
dered them  brought  down.  "  Did  I  tell  you  that  he 
lives  about  three  miles  from  the  village?  I  always  walk 
when  I  go  out  there,  but  I  will  order  a  carriage  this 
morning,  if  you  prefer  it." 

"  No,  please  don't ;  I  think  I  should  rather  walk.  I 
am  a  good  walker,  and  it  is  so  pretty  about  here;  and 
then  you  can  tell  me  a  little  more  about  my  uncle, 
his  tastes,  his  habits,  and  I  shall  be  getting  a  little 
acquainted  with  him." 

I  gave  the  necessary  orders  for  the  trunk  and  valise 
to  be  returned  to  the  room  which  she  had  occupied, 
and  we  left  the  tavern. 

We  had  a  charming  walk  together.  She  was  not  of 
those  people  with  whom  the  least  silence  produces  a 
vague  uneasiness  and  embarrassment,  as  if  a  secret 
want  of  harmony  had  begun  to  reveal  itself.  She  was 
perfectly  free  from  all  affectation,  the  most  natural 
woman  I  think  that  I  have  ever  known.  I  believe  that 
she  had  no  idea  how  altogether  pretty  and  attractive  she 
was;  for  her  beauty  wasn't  of  that  pronounced  and 
striking  type  which  at  once  draws  all  eyes  to  itself.  She 
had  the  unconscious  frankness  and  fresh  and  vivid 
curiosity  of  a  child;  and  her  pretty  little  cries  of  sur- 
prise and  admiration  at  the  beauty  of  the  forest  showed 
a  lively  sensibility  to  natural  charms  that  augured  well 
for  our  enjoyment  together.  I  began  to  understand  how 
it  had  been  possible  for  her  to  undertake  so  adventurous 
a  journey.  Her  courage  was  simply  innocence,  perfect 


A  VOICE   FROM   THE   PAST  171 

unconsciousness  of  danger;  her  confidence  wasn't  im- 
pertinence, it  was  a  superabundance  of  feeling.  Her 
whole  young  life  had  passed  in  loving  and  caring  for 
another.  She  couldn't  conceive  of  life  happily  spent  in 
any  other  way.  The  color  came  and  went  in  her  cheeks, 
and  soon  we  were  chatting  together  like  old  comrades. 
It  seemed  to  me  now,  as  if  I  had  always  known  her. 
She  continued  to  ask  me  questions  about  her  uncle,  and 
it  grew  more  and  more  difficult  for  me  to  conceive  how 
I  was  ever  to  undeceive  her  without  wounding  her 
deeply,  and  I  turned  her  attention  from  the  subject 
as  often  as  I  could,  purposely  lengthening  the  walk  and 
trying  indirectly  to  show  her  myself  and  my  real  tastes, 
that  I  might  in  some  measure  step  into  that  imaginary 
uncle's  place.  To  do  that,  I  was  always  very  careful 
to  explain  that  my  feelings  were  entirely  in  accord  with 
the  uncle's  whenever  I  was  forced  to  dwell  on  his  char- 
acteristics. 

At  last  we  approached  the  house — a  plain  log  hut  in 
the  midst  of  pines  and  oaks,  on  an  eminence  overlooking 
the  beautiful  bay.  I  had  trained  a  wisteria  vine  over 
the  logs,  and  heavy  clusters  of  purple  blossoms  hung 
from  it. 

"  How  pretty !  How  pretty !  "  she  said  in  a  low  voice 
full  of  feeling.  "But  the  door  is  shut.  Do  you  think 
he  is  at  home  ?  " 

"Yes,  follow  me.     Don't  be  afraid." 

I  hastened  forward  a  step  or  two,  opened  the  door 
and  bade  her  enter.  Now  that  the  time  had  come  to 
reveal  myself,  my  heart  beat  furiously.  I  hated  to  blurt 
the  truth  out.  I  wished  with  all  my  heart  that  she  would 
guess  it;  but  she  did  not  have  the  least  suspicion  of 
the  truth.  She  hesitated  before  the  open  door  and 
said  faintly: 

"Will  you  please  tell  him  that  I  am  here?" 

"  He  knows  it " — I  hesitated.  I  was  about  to  say 
"  Abby,"  but  that  familiarity  seemed  an  impertinence, 
yet.  She  must  know  me  before  I  could  say  that.  Then 


172        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A  RECLUSE 

a  sudden  fear  seized  me.     Suppose  that  she  wouldn't 
believe  me. 

"  Come  in,"  I  said,  taking  her  gently  by  the  arm. 
Then  I  went  directly  to  the  table  on  which  stood  a 
bottle  of  ink  and  some  paper.  I  have  a  very  peculiar 
hand-writing,  quite  unmistakably  my  own  to  any  one 
who  has  seen  it,  and  seating  myself  at  the  table,  I  de- 
liberately wrote  these  words: 

"You  are  welcome  home,  and  your  uncle  is  the  hap- 
piest uncle  in  the  world  to  call  so  charming  a  girl  his 
niece. 

"GEORGE  GRAHAM." 

She  had  followed  all  my  movements  with  the  most 
painful  suspense;  I  saw  that,  by  the  twitching  mouth 
and  reddening  brow.  I  smiled  at  her  reassuringly,  rose 
and  put  the  note  into  her  trembling  hand.  She  read 
it  and  burst  into  tears.  Then  I  felt  that  I  had  been 
very  cruel,  and  that  my  foolish  little  joke  was  no  joke 
at  all,  but  something  very  serious. 

"Abby,  my  dear  girl,  don't  cry;  don't,  my  dear.  Lis- 
ten to  me,"  and  I  took  her  two  hands  with  which  she 
had  covered  her  face,  and  forced  her  to  look  at  me. 
"  I  only  meant  it  for  a  little  joke,  and  I  detest  myself 
for  it  now;  but  you  seemed  to  make  so  much  of  your 
old  uncle,  half  infirm,  that  I  didn't  have  the  heart  to 
show  him  to  you  all  at  once,  quite  well  and  vigorous. 
That  was  stealing  from  you  the  task  that  you  had  been 
kind  enough  to  find  a  pleasure  in." 

She  drew  her  hands  from  mine,  and  the  expression 
of  shame  and  grief  on  her  face  grew  more  intense. 

"  Oh,  how  you  must  despise  me  for  being  such  a  silly 
fool!  How  could  I  make  such  a  mistake!  Can  you 
forgive  me?  If  you  only  knew  how  I  am  punished,  I 
believe  you  would  be  sorry.  Remember,  I  am  very, 
very  far  away  from  home,"  ker  eyes  filled  again,  and 


A  VOICE   FROM   THE   PAST  173 

she  began  to  sob  bitterly.  Then  my  heart  went  out  to 
her,  and  I  said: 

"  Don't  say  that  while  you  are  with  me.  Look  around 
you,  it  is  all  very  simple,  very  poor,  but  what  there  is 
of  it  is  yours.  You  are  mistress  here  as  long  as  you 
like.  If  I  did  not  bring  your  things  with  me,  it  is  be- 
cause I  wasn't  sure  that  you  could  be  content  to  share 
my  tranquil  life,  so  remote  from  the  stir  of  other  lives. 
I  could  not  be  sure  that  you  would  care  for  me,  as  I 
really  am,  but  if  you  could  say  to  me  now :  '  Uncle 
George,  this  does  please  me,  and  you  please  me,  too,'  I 
shall  be  the  happiest  man  in  Washington  Territory. 
Can  you  say  it,  Abby  Crawford  ?  " 

I  had  not  had  the  remotest  intention  of  saying  any- 
thing of  the  kind ;  but  carried  away  by  the  sympathy  of 
the  moment,  I  had  put  so  much  warmth  into  my  words 
that  I  finished  by  persuading  myself  that  I  desired  noth- 
ing so  much  in  the  world.  And  my  desire  increased  in 
proportion  as  I  saw  that  she  wasn't  at  all  inclined  to 
accept  my  offer. 

"  But,  but," — she  stammered,  "  don't  you  see  that  it 
doesn't  at  all  seem  to  me  that  you  are  my  uncle  ?  " 

"  Do  you  doubt  my  word  ?  " 

"  No,  no — you  have  proved  beyond  a  doubt  who  you 
are,  by  that  note.  Besides,  who  else  could  get  my  let- 
ters, and  know  my  name,  and  that  I  was  coming? 
No,  I  feel  that  you  are  an  honest  man,  but  I  don't  feel 
that  you  are  Uncle  George.  I  have  not  had  the  slight- 
est premonition  of  a  tie  of  blood  between  us.  Do  I 
seem  to  you  to  be  your  niece  ?  " 

"  You  say  so,  and  I  believe  you,  as  you  do  me." 

Her  face  cleared  a  moment. 

"There!  that's  it.  Don't  you  see?  You  feel  exactly 
as  I  do,  this  something  impossible,  which — which — 

would  make  it  improper "  she  hesitated,  coloring 

deeply. 

"  No,  no,"  I  answered  quickly.     "  There  is  nothing 


174        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

impossible,  nothing  improper  in  it.  Sit  down,  please.  I 
am  going  to  speak  very  frankly  to  you." 

"Yes,  yes,  do,"  she  said,  seating  herself  in  the  chair 
that  I  offered  her,  and  looking  at  me  with  an  expres- 
sion, avid  of  truth.  "  You  are  not  my  uncle,  then  ?  " 

"  Listen  to  me  patiently.  Yes.  I  am  your  uncle.  I 
have  a  bundle  of  your  mother's  letters  on  that  shelf 
yonder.  She  was  my  favorite  sister;  and  the  only  one 
of  my  family  with  whom  I  have  corresponded.  I  have 
still  the  little  letter,  written  twenty-three  years  ago,  in 
which  she  wrote  me  from  Glasgow  of  your  birth,  and 
as  I  was  only  a  boy,  then,  she  said  she  had  given  me 
another  little  sister,  that  she  hoped  would  love  me  as 
much  as  the  big  sister  had." 

"  Did  she  ?  did  she  ?  Can  you  show  me  that  letter 
now?" 

"  Yes.    I'll  get  it  for  you." 

I  got  out  the  bundle  of  letters,  tied  up  with  wrapping 
cord,  and  easily  found  the  letter  referred  to.  She  read 
it  with  streaming  eyes. 

"  But  I  never  saw  you,"  I  went  on,  "  and  we  men,  in 
general,  need  something  tangible  to  care  for.  You  wrote 
me,  that  though  you  had  never  seen  me,  you  loved  me; 
but  I  could  hardly  understand  that,  and  I  confess  that 
when  I  first  read  your  decision  to  come,  I  thought 


"  Yes,  I  know,"  she  interrupted,  "  something  fright- 
fully bold.  I  see  it  all,  now,  but  -  " 

"  No,  not  at  all.  You  are  incapable  of  boldness  ;  but 
like  all  young  girls  who  live  in  the  world  without  belong- 
ing to  it,  perhaps  you  are  a  little  romantic  ;  but  I  made 
as  great  a  mistake  in  imagining  what  you  were  like  as 
you  did  about  me,  and  I  only  wish  that  you  had  been 
as  agreeably  disappointed.  I  fancied  you  a  large,  ro- 
bust blonde,  noisy,  talkative,  aggressive."  For  the  first 
time  since  her  entrance  into  the  house,  a  smile  passed 
over  her  face,  and  I  was  so  far  encouraged  that  I 
sketched  the  figure  a  little  more  ludicrously  than  was 


A   VOICE   FROM   THE   PAST  175 

necessary.  "  And  you,"  I  went  on,  "  you  saw  in  me 
a  venerable  old  man  dragging  out  a  solitary  existence 
without  any  of  those  charms  of  domesticity  that  make 
the  consolations  of  old  age;  and  like  a  good  little  girl 
that  you  are,  being  solitary,  too,  you  came  away  out 
here  into  the  heart  of  an  American  wood  to  see  if  out 
of  these  two  solitudes,  united,  you  could  make  a  charm- 
ing companionship.  And  you  were  quite  right!  and 
though  the  old  man  isn't  quite  so  old  as  you  thought 
him,  he  is  none  the  less  solitary,  and  is  delighted  at 
the  idea  of  so  sweet  a  comrade,  so  charming  a  sister. 
Come,  Abby,  let  us  confess  that  we  have  both  made  a 
delightful  blunder,  and  ought  to  congratulate  ourselves 
on  it.  And  now,  take  off  your  hat,  my  girl,  and  help 
me  get  dinner ;  for  if-  our  walk  has  done  for  you  what 
it  has  for  me,  you  are  very  hungry.  You  are  going  to 
laugh  at  my  primitive  way  of  doing  things,  and  show 
me  how  very  much  I  needed  you." 

I  held  out  my  hand  to  take  the  hat,  which  she  was 
removing  with  nervous  hands,  and  she  said,  in  a  very 
low  voice: 

"  You  are  very  good." 

"  No.  I  am  only  very  happy,  and  I  have  only  one 
wish,  and  that  is  to  see  you  happy,  too.  Wait,  I've 
been  talking  about  setting  you  to  work  and  you  haven't 
yet  seen  what  a  fine  view  I  have  from  this  south  door; 
because,  though  there  is  not  very  much  inside  the  house, 
there  is  a  very  great  deal  out  of  doors." 

I  opened  the  door  and  we  stepped  out.  Before  us 
stretched  the  blue  waters  of  the  bay,  sparkling  under 
the  summer  sun,  its  beach  below  us  showing  huge  bar- 
nacle-covered rocks,  and  strips  of  shining  sand.  On  the 
southern  horizon  towered  the  Olympic  range  of  moun- 
tains, and  bounding  the  waters  of  the  bay  on  the  west 
rose  gentle  heights  of  dark  green  with  a  serrated  out- 
line of  spiked  firs  against  the  blue  sky;  and  close  at 
hand  was  the  heavy  timber  of  gigantic  firs,  cedars, 
spruces  with  tangled  undergrowths  of  brake  and  fern. 


176        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

Towards  the  east  towered  the  huge  dome  of  Mt.  Baker 
covered  thick  with  snow,  but  so  far  away  that  it  was 
visible  only  on  clear  days,  a  sort  of  phantom  mountain 
that  came  and  went  like  a  dissolving  view. 

The  sensitive  nature  of  the  young  girl  answered  to 
this  beauty  in  a  cry  of  joy.  She  forgot  her  disappoint- 
ment and  embarrassment,  as  if  by  magic. 

"  Oh,  how  beautiful !  how  beautiful !  "  she  exclaimed. 
"  How  admirably  you  have  chosen  the  site  of  your 
home.  And  you  can  never  feel  alone  here,  in  the 
midst  of  so  much  beauty." 

"  No,"  I  answered  frankly,  for  I  wished  her  to  know 
me  thoroughly,  now.  "  I  have  lived  a  great  deal  in 
forty  years;  for,  living  goes  by  thinking  and  feeling, 
doesn't  it?  And  I  have  learned  to  be  company  to  my- 
self. I  remember  once  hearing  an  old  Scotch  woman 
say  to  someone  who  sympathized  with  her,  thinking 
she  must  be  lonely  in  her  solitary  home  among  the 
mountain  passes,  *  No,  I  never  weary.  There's  such 
a  kind  feeling  comes  from  the  hills.'  It  was  her  homely, 
yet  expressive,  way  of  saying  what  Byron  says  so 
beautifully : 

'There   is   a   pleasure   in   the   pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society  where  none  intrudes 
By  the  deep  sea,  and  music  in  its  roar.' 

And  yet  it  is  good  to  have  someone  like-minded  near 
by,  to  whom  one  can  say  how  charming  this  dual  soli- 
tude is." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  her  cheeks  aflush  like  the  wild 
rose.  Then  after  a  short  silence,  during  which  her  eyes 
were  feeding  on  the  varied  beauty  of  the  scenes  about 
her,  she  turned  to  me  as  if  she  had  made  a  sudden 
resolution  and  said  to  me  very  gravely: 

"  Do  you   really  forgive  me  ?  " 

"For  what?" 


A   VOICE   FROM   THE   PAST  177 

"For  being  here." 

"  It  isn't  a  question  of  forgiveness,  but  of  gratitude. 
I  thank  you  from  my  heart  for  being  here.  And  will 
you  forgive  me  for  the  silly  little  joke,  growing  out 
of  my  vanity,  I  dare  say,  that  I  played  on  you  ?  " 

A  smile  lighted  up  her  face,  so  serious  the  moment 
before. 

"  Oh,  yes !  yes !  You  wouldn't  have  seemed  any  more 
my  uncle  to  me  if  you  had  confessed  at  once;  and  I 
should  have  been  so  miserably  unhappy  about  my  mis- 
take all  night  long,  that  I  think  I  should  have  taken  the 
next  train  out  of  town  and  never  seen  you  again;  and 
yet,  I — I — liked  you."  She  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands  to  hide  the  deep  red  rushing  to  the  roots  of  her 
hair. 

"Dear  girl!"  I  said. 

"  No,  no !  "  she  exclaimed,  hastily  dropping  her  hands 
and  looking  at  me  fearlessly.  "  Don't  speak  to  me  like 
a  man  of  the  world ;  or  say  anything  to  me  that  you  will 
wish  unsaid  to-morrow,  or  the  next  day,  or  the  many 
days  that  are  to  come.  That  would  be  too  frightfully 
cruel.  Let  us  talk  without  fear  to  each  other  in  the 
frankest  language  of  our  hearts,  as  if  we  stood  both  of 
us,  as  God  knows  we  may,  on  the  edge  of  an  abyss, 
and  one  step  forward  would  send  both  of  us  into  ever- 
lasting darkness.  You  have  known  the  truth  longer 
than  I;  you  must  have  reflected."  She  was  speaking 
rapidly  now,  trying  with  all  her  might  to  suppress  the 
signs  of  the  emotion  which  she  felt.  "You  know  that 
I  came  from  Scotland  hoping  to  care  for  you  as  I  had 
cared  for  mother,  to  be  a  faithful  companion,  sharing 
the  dark  days  more  willingly  than  the  sunny  ones.  God 
only  knows  how  I  came  to  make  this  fatal  mistake  of 
supposing  you  much  older  than  my  mother.  I  didn't 
know  what  hint  of  your  life  made  me  think  you  must 
be  worn  out,  a  melancholy  recluse,  yet  capable  of  in- 
tense feeling  and  joy;  that  I  gathered  from  the  few 


letters  of  yours  which  I  have  seen.  There  are  certain 
sentences  in  them  that  I  know  by  heart,  written  to  con- 
sole her.  Here  is  one  of  them: 

"  '  Not  for  anything  in  the  world  would  I  have  missed 
the  keenest  of  my  sufferings,  if  I  could  choose  to  blot 
them  from  my  life  and  make  it  all  as  sunny  as  a  cloud- 
less June.  They  have  been  my  university,  in  which  I 
have  learned  the  most  intimate  secrets  of  the  human 
heart,  the  broadest  knowledge  of  life.' 

"And  do  you  know  what  I've  always  thought!  It  is 
this:  Joy,  too,  can  teach,  and  somehow,  a  certain  shy- 
ness kept  me  always  from  asking  much  about  you; 
and  I  thought  you  were  attacked  by  one  of  those  mala- 
dies of  the  soul  which  waste  the  body,  as  well  as  make 
desolate  the  heart.  And  romantic  as  I  suppose  most 
women  are,  I  felt  my  heart  drawn  toward  you.  When 
I  was  a  very  little  girl,  I  used  to  think  about  you, 
and  say  to  myself:  When  I'm  a  woman,  I'm  going  to 
him." 

"  Bless  your  dear  little  heart ! "  I  exclaimed. 

"  I  shall  be  his  daughter.  He  shall  not  miss  in  his 

life  the  devotion  of  a  woman,  who "  Her  eyes  filled, 

her  voice  choked,  she  could  say  no  more.  My  heart 
melted  toward  her  in  a  deep  sentiment  of  tenderness 
and  pity.  I  felt  what  a  rich  gift  she  was  giving  me; 
I  was  profoundly  grateful  for  it,  and  for  nothing  in 
the  world  would  I  have  had  her  leave  me  now.  What 
right  had  stupid  conventionalities  or  silly  and  selfish 
fears  to  intrude  themselves  between  us?  She  pleased 
me  to  the  innermost  fiber  of  my  being.  She  could  en- 
rich my  life  by  sharing  it  in  a  sweet  and  chaste  com- 
panionship. 

Once  more  I  took  the  little  trembling  hands  in  mine, 
and  drawing  her  toward  me,  lightly  touched  her  fore- 
head with  my  lips.  She  hid  her  face  upon  my  shoulder, 
and  wept  to  her  heart's  content;  and  I  let  her  cry  un- 
checked, knowing  well  that  the  nervous  tension  which 
she  was  under  was  best  relaxed  by  tears;  and  I  ca-^ 


A   VOICE   FROM   THE   PAST  179 

ressed  the  little  head,  murmuring  affectionate  words  such 
as  one  speaks  to  a  penitent  child  whom  one  loves.  I 
was  happy,  with  a  healthy,  serene  joy,  full  of  hope. 
Like  a  lightning  flash,  our  life  together  rose  before  me, 
innocent  as  that  of  a  brother  and  sister — full  of  the 
sweetness  of  love  without  the  sting  of  passion.  My 
home  would  be,  now,  a  home  in  the  full  sense  of  the 
word ;  for  it  would  shelter  the  sweet  figure  of  a  woman 
to  encourage  me  in  my  tasks,  to  say  good-by  when  I 
left  the  house,  and  bid  me  welcome  when  I  entered.  I 
could  easily  build  two  more  rooms  to  the  cottage  and 
divide  the  large  room  into  two. 

Suddenly  the  young  head  left  my  shoulder,  and  the 
dear  face  looked  up  at  me,  smiling  through  its  tears. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  ."I  am  only  a  child,  after  all, 
to  be  taken  care  of  myself,  and  you — you — are  not  my 
uncle." 

"  I  see  nothing  but  this,"  I  answered.  "  You  are 
here,  where  you  belong.  I  am  your  uncle;  and  though 
I  didn't  love  you  before  I  saw  you,  I  do  love  you  now, 
and  I  don't  know  why,  any  more  than  you  do;  and  I 
don't  care.  I  see,  too,  that  you  came  here  to  take  care 
of  me.  Well,  that  suits  me  exactly.  I  need  to  be  taken 
care  of.  Just  think  of  it.  I  sew  on  my  buttons  without 
a  thimble.  Isn't  that  dreadful?  Did  you  bring  your 
thimble  along?  If  you  didn't,  I  shall  get  you  one  when 
we  go  to  town.  For  I  don't  mean  to  let  you  go.  Be 
sure  of  that.  The  house  isn't  quite  ready  for  you,  so 
I'll  take  you  back  to  the  tavern  this  evening;  and  give 
orders  to  the  carpenters  to  begin  work  to-morrow,  and 
then  in  two  or  three  weeks  we'll  have  our  house-warm- 
ing, and  invite  the  squirrels  and  the  robins  to  see  how 
happy  we  are,  in  our  new  nest.  If  I  am  not  the  morose 
old  man  whose  solitude  you  came  to  console,  I  am,  at 
least,  a  mature  man  (who  has  days  when  he  feels  very 
young,  to-day,  for  example),  a  solitary  man  at  whom 
fate  has  not  smiled  often  enough  to  spoil  in  him  a  warm 
appreciation  of  a  simple  and  pure  companionship.  I 


i8o        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A  RECLUSE 

shall  know  how  to  be  a  faithful  friend,  for  I  have  served 
my  apprenticeship  in  that;  I  know  how  to  be  grateful, 
for  my  heart  has  not  yet  grown  cold;  and  I  need  you, 
for  I  need,  once  more  in  my  life,  to  know  perfect  hap- 
piness. You  are  right.  Too  much  rain  makes  my  fruit 
spoil  and  mold.  They  need  the  warm  sunshine.  So  do 
I.  It  has  rained  enough  in  my  life.  Shine  out,  O  sun 
of  love,  warm  and  bright;  let  me  feel  what  it  is  not 
to  shiver  any  more!  Tell  me  that  I  do  not  too  much 
displease  you,  and  that  I  may  hope  to  be  a  dangerous 
rival  to  that  old  uncle,  who,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  be- 
gins to  make  me  feel  a  little  jealous,  just  now.  You've 
made  a  hero  out  of  him,  and  generous  joy  in  the  excel- 
lence of  others,  is  rare;  and  I'd  rather  you  loved  me 
with  all  my  faults,  than  him." 

She  gave  me  no  reply  beyond  a  bright  smile,  and  the 
assurance,  again,  that  I  was  "  good."  I  told  her  that 
I  wasn't,  but  that  I  should  let  her  go  on  thinking  so; 
as  we  all  need  a  superfluous  stock  of  illusions  in  youth 
to  take  us  a  good  way  through  life,  until  we  are  able 
to  get  on  comfortably  with  the  memory  of  them.  Then 
she  reminded  me  that  I  said  I  was  hungry,  and  that  I 
wished  her  to  help  me  get  dinner.  Would  I  show  her 
where  I  kept  my  things? 

I  turned  towards  the  house,  arguing  in  this  question 
an  assent  to  my  hopes ;  and  at  this  moment  a  lovely  little 
squirrel  that  I  had  tamed  darted  towards  me  from  the 
corner  of  the  house,  but  stopped  at  some  distance,  look- 
ing timidly  at  my  new  companion. 

"  Come  on,  Jacques,"  I  said,  stooping  and  holding  out 
my  arm,  encouragingly.  "  Don't  be  afraid,  you  are  go- 
ing to  have  two  friends  now  instead  of  one.  Come 
on,  come  on,  and  let  me  introduce  you  to  your  new 
mistress." 

With  a  bound  he  was  on  my  shoulder,  whisking  his 
tail  in  my  face,  and  peering  down  at  the  young  girl  by 
my  side. 

"  You  dear  little  thing ! "  she  said,  putting  out  her 


A  VOICE   FROM   THE   PAST  181 

hand  to  stroke  him,  but  with  another  bound  he  leaped 
to  the  ground  and  scampered  away. 

"  He  is  afraid  of  me.  What  a  pity !  I  am  going  to 
take  away  all  your  wood  friends." 

"  Oh,  no !  They  will  soon  get  used  to  you.  You  have 
but  to  hold  yourself  perfectly  still  among  them,  making 
no  advances,  paying  no  attention  to  them,  and  finally 
they  come  to  think  of  you  as  a  part  of  the  forest  like 
themselves  and  have  no  fear  of  you.  And  now  you 
are  going  to  laugh  at  my  primitive  style  of  cooking. 
About  ten  or  twelve  years  ago — oh,  no,  it's  much  longer 
than  that,  I  bought  a  little  portable  stove  from  an  Italian, 
such  as  they  use  in  the  streets  of  Naples  to  do  the 
family  cooking.  I  liked  it  so  well  that  when  it  wore 
out  I  had  another  made  by  a  tinsmith  after  the  old 
model.  With  a  little  charcoal  you  can  get  enough  heat 
to  boil  water,  fry  a  beefsteak,  or  an  egg.  As  for  my 
bread,  a  woman  in  the  village  makes  some  fresh  loaves 
every  Saturday.  But  now  that  you've  come  I'll  buy  a 
regular  stove.  Do  you  know  how  to  cook  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that  is  about  all  I  do  know  except  taking  care 
of  the  sick.  Oh,  what  lovely,  lovely  flowers !  " 

She  had  just  noticed  my  floral  decorations,  made  in 
her  honor. 

"  I  never  before  saw  a  flower  like  that.  What  is  its 
name  ?  " 

I  gave  her  its  name,  explaining  that  it  was  a  wild 
flower,  of  which  we  had  many  beautiful  varieties  in  the 
woods. 

"  I  can't  offer  you  an  exquisite  menu,"  I  said,  ap- 
proaching the  little  stove  to  light  it  and  put  on  some 
water.  "  Would  you  like  coffee  or  tea  ?  " 

"  It  makes  no  difference.  Whatever  you  like  best  will 
please  me  most." 

"  Then  I  must  make  both,  to  see  which  you  prefer." 

"  No,  no.     I  beg  your  pardon.    I  like  tea  best." 

"Very  well,  you  shall  have  it,"  and  I  lied  in  adding 
that  I  preferred  it,  too. 


182        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

"  Well !  I  knew  I  had  forgotten  something.  Do  you 
know  that  I  haven't  such  a  thing  as  a  table-cloth  or  a 
napkin  to  my  name?  The  necessary  has  occupied  me, 
to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else." 

"  And  these  flowers,  and  that  beautiful  green  bush 
on  the  hearth?" 

"  Were  put  there  to  please  my  lady." 

"  I  thank  you,"  and  she  lowered  her  eyes. 

"  I  know  now  what  I  can  do.  I  have  two  big  sheets 
of  white  wrapping  paper.  They'll  do  very  well  for  a 
table-cloth,  won't  they?  You  see,"  I  continued,  un- 
wrapping some  bundles  and  spreading  the  paper  on  the 
table,  "  luxury  entered  the  world  by  means  of  a  woman." 

"  But  I  beg  of  you  not  to  inconvenience  yourself  for 
me.  I  should  love  to  sit  down  with  you  just  as  you 
are  accustomed  to  do  alone." 

"  But  I  wouldn't  like  it  all ;  and  your  uncle  is  a  very 
selfish  old  man,  quite  tired  of  his  homely  way  of  living; 
let  him  put  on  a  few  extra  touches  for  you,  and  he'll 
enjoy  the  novelty  of  it  immensely." 

"  As  you  like." 

She  helped  me  set  the  table,  and  when  she  saw  me 
use  a  large  white  clam  shell  for  a  ladle  to  scoop  out 
sugar  and  salt,  and  employ  other  primitive  substitutes 
for  dishes,  she  laughed  merrily,  saying  it  seemed  like 
playing  at  housekeeping,  and  protested  against  any  in- 
novations that  would  banish  them  from  use. 

"  I  like  that  glistening,  pearly-white  surface.  It  is 
so  much  prettier  than  metal;  and  cleaner,  too,  for  it 
won't  tarnish.  But  how  do  you  get  this  smooth,  white 
surface  on  the  outside  ?  " 

"  I  boil  them  in  wood-ashes.  By  the  way,  there's 
a  fine  clam-bed  a  little  way  down  the  bay.  I  must 
teach  you  how  to  make  chowder." 

Then  we  sat  down  to  dinner  before  the  open  'door, 
and  window  that  looked  out  upon  the  yard,  with  its 
luxuriant  grass,  now  ripening  in  the  summer  sun;  and 
beyond  it,  vistas  of  orchards  and  glimpses  of  the  forest. 


A  VOICE   FROM   THE   PAST  183 

Around  us  the  great  silence  of  nature,  broken  only  by 
the  song  of  a  bird  or  the  cry  of  a  squirrel,  or  the  drop- 
ping of  a  cone  on  the  roof.  We  might  have  been  Adam 
and  Eve  in  some  western  paradise  before  the  fall.  A 
great  joy,  innocent,  foolish,  it  may  be,  took  possession 
of  me.  I  seemed  to  have  found  my  youth  again,  with 
all  its  happy  carelessness.  She  followed  all  my  words, 
my  gestures,  my  gaiety,  smiling,  laughing,  stammering 
some  broken  words  at  intervals,  and  finally  she  ex- 
claimed : 

"  How  strange !  how  strange !  Punished  or  blessed 
by  my  audacity,  which  ?  " 

"Of  us?     But  I  needed  you !" 

"  You  are  younger  than  I.  Tell  me  the  truth,  are 
you  quite  sure  that  you  never  felt  alone  here  ?  " 

"Alone?  Look  at  my  companions,"  and  I  pointed  to 
long  rows  of  shelves  filled  with  books. 

"  Yes.  I  see.  But  a  book  can't  laugh  with  you,  thank 
you,  and  tell  you  that  you  have  given  it  pleasure." 

"  Nor  quarrel  with  you,  nor  deceive  you,  nor  abandon 
you.  But  you  are  right.  Flesh  and  blood  are  better 
than  paper  and  ink.  I  haven't  felt  lonely  for  more  than 
a  few  minutes  at  a  time,  because  I  have  met  no  one  in 
many  years  whose  company  I  preferred  to  my  own 
thoughts.  You  have  come,  and  you  please  me.  Why? 
I  don't  know.  You  don't  disturb  my  solitude.  You 
give  me  a  sense  of  enlarged  personality.  You  add  to 
my  happiness.  I  feel  that  you  might  become  indispen- 
sable to  it.  And  in  that  case,  I  shall  have  trapped  my- 
self again;  I  who  came  out  here  in  search  of  liberty. 
For  you  are  woman,  you  are  young.  You  will  wish  to 
be  a  wife,  a  mother,  and  one  day  you  will  leave  me. 
But  why  stain  to-day's  blue  sky  with  to-morrow's  clouds. 
You  are  here  now.  Let  me  be  wise  and  enjoy  the 
present." 

"  Yes,  and  enjoy  it  fearlessly,"  she  answered,  "  for 
there  are  no  cloudy  skies  for  you  in  that  direction.  But " 
— she  hesitated,  blushed,  then  continued,  "  is  my  sky 


184        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

clear,  with  regard  to  you?  How  do  I  know  whether 
you  are  free  to  receive  me  here  as  your  only  com- 
panion? Do  you  not  think  of  marrying  some  day?  The 
uncle  I  came  out  to  live  with  had  no  intentions  in  that 
direction." 

"  Then  I  am  that  very  uncle." 

She  looked  at  me  a  moment,  then  shook  her  head 
with  decision. 

"  Do  you  know  that  it  seems  to  me  the  absurdest 
thing  in  the  world  to  call  you  uncle?  and  do  you  know 
further,  that  I'm  getting  so  I  almost  hate  the  name? 
Isn't  that  dreadful?" 

I  laughed.    I  didn't  like  it  so  very  much,  myself. 

"  Call  me  George,  then.  We  shall  be  George  and 
Abby  to  each  other." 

"  Brother  and  sister,  as  my  mother  predicted." 

"Yes,  brother  and  sister.     Are  you  agreed?" 

"  Yes." 

I  extended  my  hand,  and,  without  hesitation,  she  put 
hers  into  it  and  returned  the  cordial  pressure  that  I 
gave  it. 

This  agreement  seemed  to  remove  a  certain  constraint 
and  embarrassment  in  her  manner,  and  soon  we  were 
chatting  together  like  old  comrades.  The  hours  flew 
by  on  wings.  It  was  evening  before  we  thought  the 
afternoon  had  well  begun.  I  had  shown  her  my  books 
to  acquaint  her  with  my  tastes.  We  had  spoken  of  the 
necessary  changes  to  be  made  in  the  house.  She  was 
very  much  opposed  to  the  idea  of  dividing  the  large 
room  into  two.  She  wished  it  exactly  as  it  was,  with 
its  luxury  of  space,  its  accommodation  to  my  tastes. 
It  must  still  remain  my  room,  and  the  living-room,  if 
I  wished  at  all  to  please  her.  Thus  chatting,  it  was 
nearly  sunset  before  we  left  the  house  to  return  to  the 
village. 

Shall  I  ever  forget  that  delicious  walk  with  her  in 
the  cool  of  the  evening,  and  the  sweet  intervals  of  si- 
lence that  interrupted  our  talk,  a  silence  that  was  filled 


A   VOICE   FROM   THE   PAST  185 

to  each  of  us  with  the  consciousness  of  a  larger  life, 
and  deeper  sympathies?  An  exquisite  peace,  a  deep, 
full,  breathless  peace,  a  sense  of  spiritual  harmony,  a 
quiet,  intense  joy  that  filled  us  with  a  sense  of  the 
richness  of  life — and  yet  could  find  no  other  expression 
for  itself  than  a  pressure  of  the  hand  and  a  long  look 
into  each  other's  eyes ; — if  there  is  a  heaven,  and  joy  in 
it,  I  think  it  must  be  like  this. 


CHAPTER   II 

DREAMING  ONCE    MORE 

HOME  again,  after  making  arrangements  with  the  car- 
penters, I  went  late  to  bed  and  slept  fitfully.  I  was 
making  plans  for  the  future.  I  had  become  all  at  once 
a  social  man.  I  thought  of  home  with  her,  and  won- 
dered how  I  could  make  it  charming  for  her.  I  had 
decided  to  yield  to  her  request  and  leave  the  large  room 
intact  to  serve  as  a  sort  of  salon,  for  I  felt  sure  that 
this  young  girl,  with  her  social  instincts,  would  soon  at- 
attract  to  herself  all  the  young  people  of  the  village. 
I  would,  therefore,  add  three  rooms,  one  of  which  would 
serve  as  kitchen  and  dining-room.  The  rooms  should 
all  be  spacious,  well  aired,  well  lighted,  and  nothing 
omitted  to  make  them  convenient  and  comfortable,  with- 
out putting  them  out  of  harmony,  by  too  much  elegance, 
with  the  rugged  beauty  of  their  environment.  Too 
many  rooms  would  simply  mean  an  additional  care 
without  added  convenience.  I  have  no  sympathy  with 
the  modern  itch  for  huge  piles  of  brick  and  stone.  I 
am  not  without  my  ambition;  but  there  are  some  things 
in  which  I  am  very  willing  to  be  outdone.  I  never 
identify  myself  with  my  furniture  and  think  the  more  I 
have  of  it,  and  the  larger  place  I  have  to  put  it  in,  the 
more  I  amount  to  as  a  human  being.  Therefore,  I  am 
very  willing  to  have  others  outdo  me  in  houses,  dress, 
furniture,  land,  and  money;  but  I  am  very  unwilling 
that  they  should  excel  me  in  cleanliness,  decency,  virtue, 
and  wisdom.  I  would  have  my  house  my  shelter;  and 
my  intelligence  my  ornament. 

Yet,  with  all  that  preference  for  simplicity  myself, 
I  asked  myself  a  thousand  times  what  a  woman's  tastes 

1 86 


DREAMING  ONCE   MORE  187 

were,  and  in  what  way  I  could  make  a  room  attractive 
for  Abby.  How  should  I  be  able  to  find  anything 
really  beautiful  and  in  good  taste  so  far  from  the  cen- 
ters of  civilization?  All  my  own  tastes  were  for  the 
time  being  in  abeyance.  They  had  ceased  to  occupy 
me.  My  books,  that  only  a  few  days  ago  had  been  all 
the  world  to  me,  my  friends,  my  solace,  my  delight, 
spoke  to  me  no  longer. 

I  have  often  thought,  since,  how  many  of  the  activi- 
ties of  civilization  a  woman  absorbs.  It  is  she  who 
makes  luxury  possible.  It  is  she  who  is  the  materialist, 
and  who  makes  us  men,  who  are  the  idealists,  material- 
istic in  our  turn.  I  am  often  reminded,  as  I  wander 
through  the  great  department  stores  of  our  cities,  of 
the  countless  superfluities  that  the  vanity  and  helpless- 
ness of  women  have  called  into  existence.  Yet,  to  this 
very  vanity  and  helplessness  thousands  of  honest  work- 
men owe  their  livelihood. 

At  the  end  of  three  weeks  the  house  was  completed, 
furnished,  occupied,  for  I  had  put  the  largest  possible 
force  of  men  at  work  on  it;  and  Abby  and  I  com- 
menced our  solitude  a  deux.  And  we  were  happy,  per- 
fectly happy.  I  asked  nothing  more  of  destiny.  I 
would  not  have  changed  Abby  in  any  particular.  She 
had  a  great  deal  of  good  common  sense,  in  spite  of  the 
tinge  of  romanticism  in  her  nature,  for  which,  indeed, 
I  was  very  grateful,  for  it  had  sent  her  across  the  ocean 
in  quest  of  her  uncle.  In  fact,  if  we  consider  a  mo- 
ment, we  shall  find  that  the  most  beautiful  discoveries, 
and  great  movements  of  humanity  are  due  to  this  power- 
ful lever  of  action — romanticism;  and  we  should  stag- 
nate, and  sink  eventually  to  the  condition  of  brutes  if 
we  were  controlled  by  no  impulses  not  to  be  found  in 
some  form  in  the  multiplication  table.  She  was  an  ex- 
cellent housekeeper,  quick,  thrifty,  willing;  loving  her 
daily  tasks,  as  if  they  were  the  reason  of  her  existence. 
Though  fragile  looking,  she  was  strong,  elastic,  recov- 
ering quickly  from  weariness.  She  had  a  beautiful 


i88       THE  JOURNAL  OF  A  RECLUSE 

cheerfulness,  almost  childish,  finding  her  pleasures,  as 
I  did,  in  the  simplest  things,  a  stroll  on  the  beach,  a 
softer,  brighter  cushion  of  moss  on  some  fallen  tree 
trunk,  an  iridescent  shell,  and  the  glory  of  the  morning 
and  evening  sky.  It  was  always  fete  day  with  her, 
rain  or  shine. 

She  thought  me  extravagant,  though  not  wasteful, 
and  took  possession  of  the  fruits  which  I  refused  to  sell, 
exchanging  them  for  commodities  in  the  village,  as- 
suring me  that  I  had  no  right  to  give  to  those  who 
were  able  to  buy ;  for,  I  not  only  lessened  my  power  to 
do  good  to  the  really  indigent,  but  encouraged  a  pro- 
pensity to  get  something  for  nothing,  which  did  nobody 
any  good.  Then,  too,  I  was  wrong  in  not  wishing  to 
be  rich,  in  a  perfectly  legitimate  way;  for,  riches  mean 
power,  and  I  was  not  one  who  would  abuse  it;  and  all 
this  was  said  and  done  in  the  gentlest  way,  so  that  al- 
most unconsciously,  I  finished  by  yielding  to  her  judg- 
ments, and  I  began  to  wonder  how  I  had  ever  managed 
to  do  anything  right  without  her.  And  then  she  was  so 
pretty,  so  neat  and  fresh,  always,  that  it  was  a  pleasure 
simply  to  look  at  her.  She  wore  no  jewels  whatever, 
not  even  a  ring;  but  she  had  exquisite  taste,  and  what- 
ever she  wore  adorned  her. 

But  this  good  little  head  that  knew  so  well  how  to 
Calculate  and  govern  in  the  household,  had  not  the 
slightest  taste  for  the  great,  austere  truths  of  the  sages 
and  philosophers.  She  cared  little  or  nothing  for  books, 
although  she  really  thought  that  she  did.  She  was  de- 
vout, but  without  austerity.  Religion  was  for  her  a 
kind  of  poetry,  into  which  she  escaped  when  realities 
were  cruel  or  ugly.  She  could  not  have  told  you  why 
she  believed.  Her  faith  was  a  part  of  her  ancestral 
heritage,  and  recalling  my  mother,  whose  opinions  I 
did  not  share,  I  respected  her  faith  and  wouldn't  have 
destroyed  it  for  the  world.  But  she,  on  her  side,  could 
not  be  content  with  my  indifference  to  what  was  so 
sacred  to  her,  and  this  little  note  of  discord,  in  the 


DREAMING  ONCE   MORE  189 

otherwise  perfect  harmony  of  our  relations,  pained  her 
deeply. 

"  Do  you  never  go  to  church,  George  ?  "  she  said  to 
me  one  Saturday  evening,  when  we  were  taking  our 
favorite  walk  along  the  edge  of  the  wood,  looking  out 
on  the  magnificent  sheet  of  water  that  reflected  the 
evening  sky. 

"  No,"  I  replied,  "  we  go  to  church,  don't  we,  to  lift 
ourselves  above  the  vulgar  cares  of  this  world,  and  feel 
ourselves  more  intimately  allied  to  the  great  unknown 
that  we  call  the  Eternal  Good?  Well,  little  girl,  it  isn't 
in  the  churches  that  I  feel  those  flights  of  gratitude, 
and  an  aspiration  toward  a  more  complete,  more  noble 
life,  or  that  wonderful  interior  calm  so  near  to  ecstasy, 
in  which  we  lose  the  consciousness  of  the  body,  except 
as  an  excuse  to  keep  the  soul  on  earth,  and  all  the 
coarseness  in  our  life,  all  our  baseness  slips  from  our 
shoulders  like  Christian's  burden,  and  we  rise  new-born 
to  innocent  joys,  as  if  the  best  of  childhood  had  re- 
commenced within  us.  I  explain  myself  badly.  I  be- 
lieve that  this  feeling  of  inner  purification  is  the  es- 
sence of  what  we  call  religion,  and  it  is  also  the  essence 
of  poetry ;  but,  it  is  a  feeling  that  never  comes  to  me  in 
churches;  but  always  in  solitary  places  like  these  woods 
and  the  bay,  yonder.  It  is  an  exaltation  that  comes  from 
the  contemplation  of.  beauty,  power  and  perfection. 
That  is  why  men  who  have  been  very  far  from  perfect 
themselves,  but  who  have  had  a  sensitive  temperament, 
have  frequently  felt  it.  Burns  expressed  the  feeling1 
admirably,  when  he  said: 

"  *  I  never  hear  the  loud  solitary  whistle  of  the  cur- 
lew in  a  summer's  noon,  or  the  wild  mixing  cadence 
of  a  troop  of  gray  plover  in  an  autumn  morning  with- 
out feeling  an  elevation  of  soul  like  the  enthusiasm  of 
devotion  or  poetry.'  And  elsewhere  he  says: 

"  '  There  is  scarcely  any  earthly  object  gives  me  more, 
— I  do  not  know  if  I  should  call  it  pleasure,  but  some- 
thing which  exalts  me,  something  which  enraptures  me, 


190       THE  JOURNAL  OF  A  RECLUSE 

than  to  walk  in  the  sheltered  side  of  a  wood  or  high 
plantation  in  a  cloudy,  winter  day,  and  hear  the  stormy 
wind  howling  among  the  trees  and  raving  over  the 
plain.  It  is  my  best  season  for  devotion;  my  mind  is 
wrapt  up  in  a  kind  of  enthusiasm  to  Him  who  in  the 
pompous  language  of  the  Hebrew  bard  "walks  on  the 
wings  of  the  wind." ' 

"  I  do  not  know  why  an  elevated  sentiment  like  that, 
Abby,  which  disposes  a  man  to  be  better,  is  not  worth 
the  same  sentiment  awakened  within  the  walls  of  a 
church  and  often  dying  away  outside  of  them." 

We  had  seated  ourselves  on  the  fallen  trunk  of  a 
huge  pine,  covered  with  moss,  enriching  with  its  decay 
the  soil  around  it,  where  delicate  wild  flowers  grew. 
A  cool  breeze  blew  up  from  the  bay. 

She  looked  at  me  silently  a  moment,  her  sweet  face 
full  of  seriousness. 

"Yes,"  she  said  thoughtfully,  "it  is  worth  just  as 
much.  You  are  right,  as  you  always  are.  But  I,  un- 
fortunately, do  not  belong  to  those  favored  souls  who 
can  feel  beauty  in  the  form  of  a  noble  thought,  or  an 
enlightening  and  purifying  emotion.  Pleasure,  yes,  and 
intense  pleasure  at  times,  I  feel  from  it,  but  not  that 
calm  you  speak  of — rather  a  restlessness,  an  eager  de- 
sire to  possess  it  more  intimately.  Then,  too,  I  am  not 
capable  of  enjoying  anything  alone,  I  need  the  personal 
element  to  enter  into  my  enjoyment  in  some  way.  For 
example,  how  very  beautiful  it  is  here  just  now,  at  this 
hour.  Look  at  that  rich  crimson  cloud  floating  on  the 
surface  of  the  water,  just  as  it  floats  in  the  sky.  Look 
at  those  long  beams  of  rich  yellow  light  that  pierce 
through  the  leaves  of  the  trees  and  light  up  those  thick 
patches  of  moss  so  vividly.  These  pretty  spikes  of 
golden-rod  that  seem  to  have  been  steeped  in  the  sun- 
light— aren't  they  beautiful?  Yes,  I  feel  all  this  to  the 
innermost  core  of  my  heart ;  but,  George,  if  you  weren't 
here,  if  I  could  not  hear  your  voice,  or  touch  your 


DREAMING  ONCE   MORE  191 

hand  " — she  slipped  her  hand  into  mine,  interlacing  her 
fingers  with  mine, — "  do  you  think  I  could  feel  it  at 
all?  No — I  couldn't.  I  should  be  miserable  alone,  as 
you  were,  before  I  came.  I  need  somebody  with  me 
before  I  can  enjoy  anything.  I  should  never  be  the 
first  to  break  a  pathway  in  any  direction.  I  must  follow 
where  a  path  has  been  made.  It  is  the  same  thing  with 
religion.  I  should  go  all  astray  were  I  left  to  my  own 
devices.  I  need  before  me  the  broad  pathway  that  my 
ancestors  have  trodden.  There  is  something  sacred  to 
me  in  this  dust,  which  has  felt  the  pressure  of  so  many 
feet.  The  strange,  the  novel,  frighten  me.  Why?  I 
am  a  woman.  That  explains  it  all,  doesn't  it?  I  used 
to  think  we  women  quite  as  intelligent,  quite  as  brave 
and  strong  as  you  men :  I  don't  think  so  any  more." 

She  drew  closer  to  me,  and  I  lifted  to  my  lips  the 
little  hand  that  I  held.  She  was  very  dear  to  me,  and 
growing  dearer  every  day.  She  drew  her  hand  away 
quickly,  and  brusquely  rose  from  the  old  log,  saying 
with  feverish  haste: 

"  Come,  come,  the  sun  is  setting,  the  bay  is  calling 
us.  I  want  a  boat-ride,  don't  you?  You  haven't  yet 
taught  me  to  row,  and  you  promised  me  that.  It  has 
been  too  warm,  but  it  is  cool  this  evening ;  let's  not  lose 
the  chance.  Live  near  a  beautiful  sheet  of  water  like 
that  and  not  know  how  to  row,  isn't  that  ridiculous?" 

She  was  walking  rapidly  towards  the  beach,  refusing 
any  help  from  me  in  descending  the  steep  cliff,  running 
when  she  could,  stopping  short  to  recover  her  breath, 
and  to  push  back  the  thick  masses  of  hair  which  the 
breeze  had  disordered,  laughing  merrily,  but  not  looking 
at  me,  except  with  furtive  glances  that  shunned  mine 
persistently.  A  mood,  a  girl's  caprice. 

Arrived  at  the  water's  edge,  she  seized  the  oars,  say- 
ing: 

"  I  have  watched  you  carefully  when  you  rowed.  I 
half  believe  I  can  row  now.  Won't  you  please  sit  over 


192        THE   JOURNAL1   OF  A   RECLUSE 

there  at  the  end,  and  let  me  have  the  middle  seat?  I 
want  to  show  you  that  my  muscles  are  not  so  weak  as 
my  ideas." 

I  obeyed  her,  and  though  she  was  a  little  awkward 
and  slow  at  first,  soon  the  irregular  and  jerky  move- 
ment grew  measured  and  rythmical.  She  rowed  a  long 
time  without  looking  at  me,  though  I  sat  facing  her. 
Her  eyes  strayed  over  the  bay  and  the  wood.  Slowly 
the  crimson  colors  died  from  the  water  and  the  sky,  and 
gave  place  to  darker  hues.  A  light  blue  mist  half  con- 
cealed the  shores  with  a  soft  veil,  indescribably  pretty. 
A  great  silence  fell  around  us.  She  suddenly  let  fall 
her  arms,  the  oars  rested  in  their  locks;  then,  for  the 
first  time  looking  at  me,  she  said  in  a  low,  hushed  voice : 

"This  is  the  calm  you  were  speaking  of."  She 
paused  a  moment.  I  did  not  reply.  There  was  no  ne- 
cessity for  words. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  continued  after  a  few  moments, 
"  that  sometimes  my  former  life  seems  to  me  all  a 
dream — and  that  instead  of  five  weeks,  it  has  been  all 
my  life  that  I  have  lived  in  this  forest,  and  looked  at 
this  blue  water — with  you.  You  don't  believe  in  Provi- 
dence. How  sorry  I  am!  But  I  do.  I  was  brought 
here  for  something,  some  great  trial,  it  may  be,  I  don't 
know.  But  I  should  like  to  be  worthy  of  it.  You  have 
a  great  influence  over  me,  too  great,  perhaps,  but  don't 
destroy  my  faith,  I  beg  you.  I  feel  that  somehow  it  is 
intertwined  with  the  very  roots  of  my  being,  and  could 
not  be  plucked  out  without  killing  me,  body  and  soul; 
and  that  whatever  happiness  this  world  could  offer  me, 
it  could  never  fill  the  void  of  a  world  without  God. 
You  make  me  happy,  I  was  going  to  say  supremely, 
perfectly  happy;  but  I  do  not  breathe  so  freely, — how 
shall  I  explain  myself — nor  with  so  much  security, 
since  I  have  not  been  to  church.  It  has  been  many 
Sundays  now  since  I  have  missed  going.  Of  course  I 
could  not  go  on  the  journey,  but,  settled  here,  I  think 
it  isn't  right  of  me  to  neglect  this  duty." 


DREAMING   ONCE   MORE  193 

"  Very  well,  my  girl,  you  shall  go  to-morrow,"  I 
said  very  quickly.  "  I  shall  take  you  there  myself.  But 
why  didn't  you  mention  it  sooner?" 

"Why?  because  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  so 
good,  and  I  so  wicked;  and  I  wanted  to  fit  myself  en- 
tirely into  your  way  of  living.  I  feared  to  weary  you, 
to  inconvenience  you  by  any  marked  change,  and  then 
I  was  always  hoping  that  you  would  say  to  me  some 
day,  'Abby,  we'll  go  to  church  this  morning,'  but  you 
never  said  it.  And  now,  I  know  that  I  can't  be  good  in 

your  way,  I  must  be  good  in  my  own  way,  and  so " 

she  stopped  and  smiled  at  me  in  her  sweet  youthful 
manner,  so  full  of  charm. 

"You  were  wrong  to  wait  for  me  to  guess  what  is 
necessary  to  your  happiness,  Abby,"  I  said  gravely. 
"  Now,  never  forget  that  I  do  not  wish  to  control  or 
restrain  you  in  the  least  thing  in  the  world.  I  wish  you 
to  live  in  perfect  liberty  here.  Dear  as  you  are  to  me, 
I  wouldn't  hold  you  a  moment  if  you  wished  to  go.  It 
would  grieve  me  to  lose  you,  but  it  would  grieve  me 
much  more  to  know  that  you  were  unhappy  with  me.  In 
friendship,  as  in  love,  there  is  no  law.  That  which 
unites  us  to  those  we  love  is  not  a  (compact,  it  is  an 
attraction  that  comes  and  goes  without  our  will,  we 
know  not  how,  or  when." 

I  was  silent,  and  she  repeated  softly:  "You  are 
right;  it  comes  and  goes,  we  know  not  how,  or  when. 
You  think,  then,  that  we  are  not  responsible  for  our 
feelings  ?  " 

"  Up  to  a  certain  point,  yes, — beyond  that, — no.  We 
can  weakly  yield  to  our  inclinations  and  let  them  in- 
crease beyond  our  power  to  control  them,  or  we  can 
vigorously  combat  them,  and  free  ourselves  from  their 
influence." 

"  And  it  is  the  end,  always,  that  counts,  isn't  it? 
If  the  drink  leaves  a  bitter  taste  in  the  mouth,  it  is 
folly  to  drink  it,  no  matter  how  sweet  it  tastes,  at  first. 
Isn't  it  so?" 


194        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A  RECLUSE 

"  Perhaps,"  I  answered  dreamily.  I  was  thinking 
of  my  youth  and  of  that  sweet  draught  of  friendship 
and  love  which  I  had  drunk,  and  whose  after-taste  had 
been  so  bitter.  But  wasn't  it  worth  it?  "I  am  not  sure, 
Abby,  that  it  is  wise  to  be  always  counting  the  cost  of 
things.  We  should  miss  an  immense  amount  of  life 
if  we  did.  It  is  better  to  live  with  a  certain  generous 
fearlessness  and  take  the  bitter  with  the  sweet." 


CHAPTER    III 

TRYING    TO    KEEP    STEP    TOGETHER 

I  WENT  with  her  to  church  the  next  day,  voluntarily 
doing  violence  to  my  own  sentiments  to  avoid  wounding 
hers.  At  first  I  found  a  real  pleasure  in  this  little  sac- 
rifice, for  it  really  was  a  sacrifice  for  me ;  but,  at  the  end 
of  a  few  months,  the  pleasure  had  changed  into  an  in- 
supportable weariness.  I  dreaded  the  approach  of  Sun- 
day as  a  schoolboy  dreads  his  tasks.  If  I  could  once 
have  heard  a  stirring  or  energetic  word ;  if  I  could  once 
have  been  reminded  that  the  man  to  whom  I  listened 
had  had  his  life  enriched  by  any  valuable  experiences 
to  give  weight  to  counsels  and  reflections  that  it  would 
have  been  a  privilege  to  listen  to,  I  would  have  gladly 
gone.  But  there  was  nothing  but  the  same  dry,  threshed 
straw,  Sunday  after  Sunday,  till  the  dust  of  its  chaff  got 
into  my  throat  and  stifled  me.  He  had  not  even  lived 
enough  to  know  the  meaning  of  any  life,  let  alone  that 
of  the  great  moral  genius  whose  teachings  it  was  his 
business  to  spread.  Without  capacity  enough  to  doubt, 
he  dared  to  speak  of  those  deep  painful  experiences  of 
every  thoughtful  mind  with  the  contempt  of  shallow 
ignorance;  and  at  last  it  became  impossible  for  me  to 
go  any  more  and  keep  my  self-respect.  In  short,  if 
Abby  couldn't  be  good  in  my  way,  I  found  it  just  as  im- 
possible for  me  to  be  good  in  her  way.  We  both 
thrived  on  a  different  mental  diet.  I  felt  myself  in  a 
false  position,  which  grew  base  the  longer  I  persisted  in 
it,  so  one  Sunday,  at  the  church  door,  feeling  unusually 
rebellious,  and  unable  to  sustain  an  hour  of  torture 
within,  I  said: 

"Abby,  if  you  like  I  will  stay  outside  to-day:  but  I 
will  come  for  you  at  the  end  of  the  service." 


196        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

The  quick  color  surged  over  her  pretty  face,  and  she 
answered  quickly: 

"  Yes,  yes ;  don't  stay,  and  don't  wait  for  me  either. 
There's  no  need  of  it;  I  know  the  road  home  just  as 
well  as  you  do." 

We  were  so  dear  to  each  other  that  we  were  each 
conscious  of  the  slightest  movement  in  the  fluctuation 
of  feeling  between  us.  I  felt  that  I  had  wounded  her; 
but  before  I  could  answer  a  word  she  had  disappeared. 
If  I  had  yielded  to  my  first  impulse,  I  should  have  fol- 
lowed her  into  the  church,  but  some  indomitable  prin- 
ciple in  me  held  firm.  I  knew  that,  in  the  long  run, 
the  sentiment  of  liberty  and  progress  was  stronger  in 
me  than  anything  else.  It  was  putting  on  again  the 
swaddling  clothes  of  my  infancy  to  seat  myself  there, 
every  Sunday.  The  high-pitched,  whining  tunes  of  the 
hymns,  the  pompous,  nasal  drawl  from  the  pulpit,  irri- 
tated every  nerve  in  me.  All  the  best  of  me  was  in  re- 
bellion: but  to  be  quite  frank,  I  was  very  much  more 
unhappy  away  from  Abby,  and  sure  that  I  had  hurt 
her,  this  one  interminable  Sunday  morning.  Would 
it  never  end?  I  suffered  horribly  at  having  made  her 
suffer.  I  felt  something  weak  and  unbalanced  in  me, 
something  that  hurt  me  with  an  intensity  far  out  of 
all  proportion  to  the  cause.  I  trembled  like  a  child 
when,  at  last,  I  saw  her  appear  at  the  church  door, 
and  hastened  forward  in  joy.  But  she  held  her  little 
head  very  high;  her  cheeks  were  flaming;  her  eyes 
sparkling,  and  her  whole  air  was  very  different  from 
what  it  usually  was.  She  saw  me,  but  quickly  turned 
her  eyes  away,  and  tried  to  avoid  me;  but  I  was  at  her 
side  in  a  moment.  She  feigned  great  surprise  at  see- 
ing me,  and  said,  in  a  cool,  unnatural  way: 

"  Why  1  is  it  you?  I  thought  you  had  gone  back 
home." 

"  No !  no !  and  Abby,  you  didn't  think  anything  of 
the  kind.  You  knew  that  I  was  hanging  around  here 
like  a  whipped  cur,  miserable  without  you." 


TRYING  TO   KEEP   STEP   TOGETHER      197 

We  were  walking  rapidly  in  order  to  escape  the  crowd. 
Besides,  it  was  quite  chilly:  for  it  was  a  raw,  gray  day 
in  December,  and  the  trees,  stripped  of  their  leaves, 
were  whipped  to  and  fro  in  a  sharp  wind. 

"  And  why,"  she  asked,  raising  her  eyes  for  the  first 
time  to  look  at  me,  "  why  should  you  be  miserable  with- 
out me?" 

"  Because  I  had  hurt  you.  No,  little  girl,  don't  deny 
it.  You  and  I  must  always  speak  the  truth  to  one  an- 
other. Unless  we  do,  we  shall  be  a  thousand  miles 
apart,  though  as  near  together  as  we  are  now.  Take 
my  arm,  please:  we  shall  walk  more  easily  arm  in  arm 
in  this  strong  wind.  There !  that's  better,  isn't  it?  Now, 
confess  to  me,  like  a  good  girl.  I  did  hurt  you,  didn't 
I?  And  I  am  sorry  for  it." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  and  I  was  wrong  to  feel  hurt ; 
but  how  does  it  happen  that  I  am  so  sensitive  with  re- 
gard to  you?  I  never  used  to  be  like  that,  but  a  word 
from  you,  no,  not  even  a  word,  just  a  look,  a  little  ab- 
sent-minded or  cold,  cuts  me  to  the  heart,  wounds  me 
horribly :  and  I  begin  to  imagine  all  sorts  of  silly  things. 
Yes,  I  know  they're  silly:  but  I  can't  help  it — no,  I 
can't  help  it  for  the  life  of  me.  I  say  to  myself,  '  I  am 
in  his  way.  He  is  tired  of  me.  Far  from  being  neces- 
sary to  him,  I  am  an  inconvenience.  I  keep  him  from 
enjoying  his  books  and  his  thoughts;  he  would  like  me 
to  go  away ' ;  and  then  I  get  so  unhappy,  so  very  un- 
happy." 

I  heard  a  sob :  the  tears  were  rolling  down  her  cheeks. 
A  strange  joy  seized  me,  an  intoxication  of  gaiety. 

"  My  little  one,  my  little  pet,"  I  said,  patting  the  hand 
that  rested  so  lightly  on  my  arm,  "  you  make  the  joy 
of  my  life.  Without  you,  I  should  have  no  light,  no 
warmth.  I  wonder  now  how  I  ever  found  these  woods 
habitable  without  you,  or  could  content  myself  with 
books  alone,  for  companionship.  You  are  more  to  me 
than  anything  else  in  the  world.  Don't  forget  that,  even 
if  I  shouldn't  say  it  to  you  every  day.  But  under- 


198        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

stand  me  well.  I  can't  be  you.  I  can't  at  forty,  think 
the  thoughts  of  a  young  girl  in  her  twenties.  You  find 
your  food  and  drink,  where  I  should  die  of  hunger  and 
thirst;  and  you  must  bear  with  me,  if  I  cannot  live  on 
a  rose-bud  and  a  drop  of  dew.  I  need  bread  and  meat. 
It  is  not  my  fault.  Nature  made  me  so.  And  I  do  not 
ask  you  to  be  one  whit  different  from  what  you  are — 
and  least  of  all  should  I  like  you  to  resemble  me.  I 
shouldn't  find  the  same  charm  in  you  if  you  were  an 
echo  of  myself.  Let  us  respect  these  differences  be- 
tween us.  I  am  satisfied  with  you.  Try  to  be  con- 
tent with  me  as  I  am." 

"  Content  with  you ! "  she  repeated,  wiping  the  tears 
from  her  eyes.  "  Oh,  I  am  only  too  content  with  you, 
and  that  is  my  great  happiness,  and  my  great  mis- 
fortune. Be  patient  with  me.  I  don't  know  myself 
any  more !  Ah !  how  fine  that  wind  is !  It  does  me  good 
to  hear  it  rage  like  that.  Don't  you  like  these  tempests, 
sometimes,  in  which  you  seem  to  feel  a  soul  that  an- 
swers to  your  own  ?  " 

"What!  Do  you  mean  that  there  is  anything  like 
that  rage  in  you,  little  girl?  If  so,  then  I  don't  know 
you  any  more,  either." 

"No?  I  am  getting  wicked,  am  I  not?  Oh,  I  felt 
so  wicked  in  church  this  morning.  Let's  stop  here  a 
moment."  We  had  entered  the  edge  of  the  wood.  "  Lis- 
ten how  the  wind  roars  among  the  trees,  magnificent, 
isn't  it?  Now,  I  understand  you  and  your  Burns.  This 
is  better  than  a  sermon.  If  I  should  become  capable 
of  getting  what  you  do  out  of  these  things,  would  it 
please  you  better  ?  " 

There  was  in  her  voice,  her  look,  her  gesture  some- 
thing so  wild  and  excited,  that  my  pleasure  in  her  emo- 
tion changed  to  pity.  I  saw  at  once  that  I  had  to  do 
with  an  exaggerated  sensibility,  which  might  easily  be- 
come morbid  and  give  rise  to  painful  misunderstand- 
ings between  two  creatures  capable  of  giving  each  other 
the  purest  joy.  Young,  over-sensitive,  romantic,  she 


TRYING  TO   KEEP   STEP   TOGETHER      199 

could  not  explain  a  difference  of  tastes  except  in  terms 
of  repugnance.  She  was  content  with  nothing  less  than 
a  complete  harmony  between  us,  on  all  possible  subjects. 
She  suffered  at  the  least  appearance  of  discord  between 
us.  If  I  read  in  her  presence,  she  felt  it  a  tacit  reproach 
to  herself  for  not  being  as  interesting  as  the  book.  Like 
the  poplar  that  trembles  in  the  still  air,  as  if  a  tempest 
were  raging,  her  sensitive  nerves  vibrated  even  to  the 
merest  suggestion  of  indifference  in  me.  I  recalled  this 
trait  of  over-sensitiveness  in  her  mother,  and  knew  how 
it  had  embittered  some  of  the  sweetest  experiences  of  her 
life.  I  determined  if  possible,  gently  but  firmly,  to  make 
her  feel  how  cruel  unnecessary  suffering  is,  and  how 
essential  it  is  to  our  comfort  to.  accept  things  which 
we  cannot  change:  and  persistently  dwell  on  what  is 
cheerful  and  happy  in  our  lives  rather  than  on  what 
is  painful.  And  as  for  those  who  turn  their  sunshine 
into  gloom,  I  meant  to  tell  her  that  they  merit  the  ter- 
rible sarcasm  of  Dante,  who  portrays  them  in  his  In- 
ferno fixed  in  black  slime,  because  they  were  sad  and 
sluggish  in  the  sweet  air  cheered  by  the  sun: 

"  Tristi  fummo 

Nell'  aer  dolce  che  dal  sol  s'allegra, 
Portando  dentro  accidioso  fummo: 
Or  ci  attristiam  nella  belletta  negra." 

I  knew  myself  well  enough  to  recognize  that  beneath 
all  ebullitions  of  sensibility,  there  was  in  me  something 
positive,  ineradicable,  destined  to  survive  them,  and  that 
if  I  weakened  now,  we  were  lost.  I  believed,  too,  that 
deep  within  her  nature,  there  was  an  inextinguishable 
persistent  need,  that  of  taking  refuge  from  the  crosses 
of  life  in  faith  in  an  ever  present  and  inexhaustible 
divine  love.  Upon  this  subject,  we  must  clearly  under- 
stand one  another.  I  knew  now,  without  the  shadow  of 
a  doubt,  that  this  great  solicitude  to  please  me,  this  fear 
of  tiring  me,  came  from  a  genuine  affection  that  would 


200        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A  RECLUSE 

be  either  our  felicity,  or  our  torment;  for  there  is  no 
joy  like  that  of  a  generous,  fearless  love;  no  torment 
more  unendurable  than  that  of  a  nagging,  jealous,  petty 
love,  always  doubting,  always  needing  to  be  reassured, 
tormenting  itself  in  a  thousand  foolish  ways,  content 
neither  with  renunciation  nor  possession. 

Accustomed  to  indifference,  having  lived  so  long 
among  strangers  that  I  accepted  mere  courtesies  with 
gratitude,  and  was  content  with  toleration,  I  was  in- 
tensely grateful  for  this  warm  young  affection  that  had 
come  into  my  life.  But  I  did  not  wish  it  to  enter  a 
crisis,  whence  it  must  come  out  mutilated,  scarred  with 
suspicions  and  dissensions.  I  dreamed  of  a  tranquil  love, 
a  sky  eternally  blue,  without  the  shadow  of  a  cloud. 
Yes,  I  was  guilty  of  that  folly;  I,  a  mature  man,  who 
thought  that  I  knew  the  human  heart  to  its  innermost 
fold;  I,  who  knew  what  it  was  to  suffer  from  loving 
too  well. 

In  proportion  as  Abby  lost  her  coolness,  I  acquired 
it,  and  began  to  reason  quietly  with  her. 

"  Abby,  answer  me  frankly.  Let  us  conceal  nothing 
from  each  other.  We  have  been  living  under  the  same 
roof  about  six  months.  Have  you  been  happy  with  me? 
Now,  don't  answer  to  please  me.  You  could  not  wrong 
me  more  than  that." 

"  Happy ! "  she  repeated  with  emphasis.  "  That  seems 
a  poor  little  word  to  express  the  perfect  joy  that  I  feel 
with  you.  But" — she  plucked  a  long  grass  stalk,  as 
she  talked,  and  bent  and  broke  it  nervously — "  it  is  a 
joy  that  is  mingled  with  anxiety.  I  am  fearing  always 
to  lose  it,  to  displease  you  in  some  way,  tire  you,  and 
not  for  all  the  world  would  I  do  that." 

She  turned  her  face  away  from  me,  and  we  recom- 
menced our  walk  in  the  wind  among  the  fallen  leaves 
and  dead  twigs ;  black  clouds  were  flying  above  our 
heads,  and  now  and  then  the  harsh  caw  of  a  crow 
was  heard. 

"  I    understand    that   perfectly,"    I    said.     "  This   is 


TRYING  TO   KEEP   STEP   TOGETHER      201 

the  first  time  in  your  life  that  you  have  lived  intimately 
with  a  stranger;  for  that  is  what  I  really  was  to  you, 
when  you  came." 

"  No,"  she  answered  quickly,  glancing  up  at  me,  as 
she  lifted  her  hand  to  hold  down  the  brim  of  her  hat. 
"  You  were  never  a  stranger  to  me,  from  the  first  mo- 
ment that  I  saw  you,  but — you  weren't  my  uncle." 

"Who  was  I,  then?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Someone  whom  I  had  always 
known,  but  from  whom  I  had  been  separated  a  long 
time." 

"  Well,  little  girl,  if  you  know  me  so  well,  you  ought 
to  know,  also,  that  it  is  impossible  for  you  to  tire  me, 
or  to  vex  me.  But  you  might  make  me  unhappy,  if  I 
saw  you  unhappy;  but  in  no  other  way.  It  is  true  that 
I  can't  see  everything  with  your  eyes,  and  it  would  be 
a  miracle  if  I  could,  for  my  eyes  are  many  years  older, 
and  the  eyes  of  a  man,  not  of  a  young  woman.  Life 
had  commenced  to  teach  me  before  you  were  born,  and 
do  you  think  that  I  stopped  at  those  early  lessons  to 
stagnate  and  grow  old?  I  hope  not.  I  hope  I  have  still 
some  few  inches  of  mental  growth  left  me  before  I  die. 
And  you,  dear,  you  have  also  your  apprenticeship  to 
serve  in  life.  You  have  only  well  commenced,  and  here 
you  are,  in  haste  to  strip  off  your  pretty  illusions  and 
see  things  in  gray,  and  not  rose  any  more.  Believe  me, 
that  isn't  wise.  Let  the  years  do  that.  They  do  it  quite 
fast  enough  without  any  help.  Keep  intact  in  yourself, 
as  long  as  possible,  this  pretty  souvenir  of  my  own 
youth.  If  you  can't  do  it,  if  you  are  wretched,  because 
you  can't  become  my  echo,  or  because  I  can't  roll  the 
years  from  my  shoulders,  I  shall  think  myself  poor  com- 
pany for  you,  and  that  we  must  look  for  a  better  com- 
rade among  the  young  people  of  the  village." 

"  No,  no — don't  say  that  please.  You  don't  know 
how  much  you  hurt  me,  when  you  think  that  I  am 
not  satisfied  with  you." 

"  Yes,  don't  you  see  that  works  both  ways  ?  " 


202        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

"  I  wouldn't  have  you  a  day  younger,"  she  contin- 
ued, heedless  of  my  interruption,  "  not  a  day.  You  are 
exactly  right  as  you  are,  and  I  see  that  I  am  foolish 
and  ungrateful  to  be  over-sensitive.  It  is  just  a  little 
weakness  in  me,  George,  which  you  must  forgive,  and 
to  prove  to  you  that  I  mean  to  cure  myself  of  it,  I 
shall  go  to  church  alone  in  future;  and  I  shall  be  sat- 
isfied with  knowing  you  are  at  home,  thinking,  perhaps, 
once  in  a  while  of  me,  and — who  knows,  sometimes 
wishing  for  me,  maybe." 

"  There  is  no  '  maybe '  about  it,  Abby.  I  always 
wish  for  you  when  you  are  not  with  me;  and  I  wasn't 
using  an  extravagant  term  when  I  said  that  I  was  mis- 
erable without  you,  this  morning.  I  really  was;  and 
I  was  so  impatient  for  the  sermon  to  end.  You  have 
come  to  mean  a  great  part  of  my  life,  little  girl." 

"  Really  ?  "  she  said,  putting  her  small  hand  into  mine. 
"  Come,  run  with  me  a  little :  how  happy  you  make  me ! 
I  love  this  wind,  don't  you?  What  music  it  makes 
among  the  trees,  and  how  the  leaves  rustle  under  our 
feet !  What  makes  us  love  that  noise  ?  Really,  I  am  still 
a  child.  Come ! "  We  started  to  run  together,  until 
by  a  brusque  movement  of  her  hand,  she  stopped  me. 

"  Enough !  Enough !  "  she  cried.  "  I  am  all  out  of 
breath."  Then  after  a  short  silence: 

"  Did  you  know  my  father  ?  " 

"  No.  I  only  saw  him  twice.  I  remember  that  he 
was  an  artist,  and  that  he  fell  in  love  with  your  mother 
the  first  time  that  he  saw  her." 

"  I  adored  my  father,  even  when  I  knew  that  his 
neglect  made  my  mother  unhappy.  He  was  so  very 
handsome,  very  distinguished  looking:  but  do  you  know 
that  with  him,  too,  I  was  always  fearful  of  giving  of- 
fense, or  being  in  the  way.  Now,  I  loved  my  mother, 
but  in  a  different  sort  of  way.  My  father  traveled  a 
great  deal,  and  we  were  years  and  years  alone  together. 
And  I  knew  her  as  I  know  myself.  And  then  I  was 
necessary  to  her,  for  she  was  an  invalid.  I  had  to  think 


TRYING  TO   KEEP   STEP   TOGETHER     203 

and  plan  for  her  and  spare  her  anxiety.  I  had  no  time 
to  think  of  myself.  But  with  you,  I  have  no  cares, 
no  anxieties;  and  so  I  have  had  to  make  myself  some, 
I  suppose.  I  have  heard,  haven't  you,  of  people  who 
are  never  happy  unless  they  are  miserable?  Poor 
Mother!  I  remember  father's  saying  that  to  her,  one 
day.  Do  you  know,  I  really  think  she  grieved  herself 
to  death  about  him,  and  that  he  was  rarely  out  of  her 
mind.  It  is  cruel  to  love  like  that,  isn't  it?  so  very 
cruel!  One  day,  not  long  before  her  death,  she  said 
to  me :  '  I've  been  thinking  over  my  life  while  lying 
here,  and  there  is  one  thing  in  it  that  I  deeply  regret.' 
'  Mamma/  I  answered,  '  yon  have  never  done  any- 
thing in  your  life  that  you  need  to  regret.'  '  Yes,  my 
daughter,'  she  replied.  '  I  regret  that  I  ever  married 
your  father/  '  Why,  mamma !  mamma ! '  I  cried,  '  that 
means  that  you  regret  me,  too — me,  who  would  do  any- 
thing in  the  world  for  you/  She  put  her  hand  on  mine, 
her  eyes  full  of  tears.  '  My  daughter,  I  bought  you  at 
the  price  of  great  suffering/  '  And  I  am  not  worth  the 
price,  mamma  ? '  I  said.  She  smiled  at  me  so  sweetly, 
so  reassuringly.  She  must  have  been  very  pretty  as  a 
girl,  for  at  that  moment  she  was  beautiful.  '  Yes,  you 
are  worth  the  price.  Marriage  with  all  its  degradations, 
all  its  cruel  disillusionments  and  humiliations,  has  one 
pearl — motherhood/  " 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "your  mother  was  right,  Abby. 
Marriage  means  the  family.  It  is  the  children  who 
bring  the  magnificent  word  duty  into  a  man's  life.  So 
far  as  my  experience  goes,  love  between  men  and  women 
isn't  a  particularly  noble  sentiment,  in  spite  of  all  the 
noble  things  that  are  said  about  it.  It  is  very  often 
nothing  but  the  doubling  of  a  man's  egotism,  and  I 
am  not  sure  that  egotism  in  pairs  is  much  better  than 
egotism  in  one.  I  have  known  men  to  be  false  to  the 
commonest  sentiments  of  honor  and  friendship  to  flat- 
ter their  self-love  in  the  love  of  a  woman." 

"  George,   I   don't  like  to  hear  you   talk  like  that. 


204        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

Can  it  be  possible  that  you,  too,  have  a  skeleton  in  the 
closet?" 

I  laughed. 

"  No,  no,  my  girl.  I  have  no  skeleton,  if  you  mean 
by  that  some  grief  that  has  ossified  instead  of  dissipating 
with  time.  I  have  had  my  griefs,  bitter  ones,  too;  who 
hasn't  ?  but  they  have  been  to  me  what  these  dead  leaves 
will  be  to  the  trees  from  which  they  fall.  The  soil  that 
furnishes  them  their  nourishment  will  be  only  the  richer 
for  them." 

"  Then  there  is  a  chemistry  of  life,  an  assimilation 
of  sorrow  and  pain  and  a  transformation  of  it  into  fruits 
and  flowers?  It  is  good  to  remember  that.  George, 
did  you  ever  think  of  getting  married  ?  " 

"  Never." 

"  But — you — do  you "  she  stammered  and  was  si- 
lent. 

I  burst  out  laughing  and  repeated  her  words  in  her 
manner,  adding :  "  Ah — ha !  little  girl,  you  want  to  find 
out  all  my  secrets,  whether  I  ever  loved  a  woman, 
whether  I  can  love  again,  and  all  sorts  of  things,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  should  like  to  know  you^  tlnrough  and 
through." 

"  And  do  you  remember  what  happened  once  to  a 
woman  who  wanted  to  know  too  much  ?  " 

"  Yes,  she  lost  herself,  and  all  the  human  race." 

"  And  that  doesn't  frighten  you  a  bit  ?  " 

"  Not  the  least  in  the  world." 

"  But  it  does  me,  and  I  shan't  let  you  run  any  such 
risk.  Be  content  with  knowing  that  I  haven't  found 
the  woman,  yet,  who  would  be  content  to  walk  with 
me  through  the  solitudes  of  life:  even  you,  little  girl, 
won't  stay  with  me  very  long.  One  of  these  fine  days, 
you  will  be  discovering  that  you  have  wings,  and  you'll 
be  flying  away  to  build  your  nest  elsewhere." 

"  Never ;  never !  Oh,  how  you  vex  me  when  you  talk 
like  that,  even  in  jest!  How  little,  how  very  little  you 
know  me." 


TRYING  TO   KEEP   STEP   TOGETHER      205 

"  Do  I,  really  ?  Very  well,  then  I  shall  believe  in  you, 
until " 

"  There  is  no  until — don't  you  remember  telling  me 
one  day  not  to  darken  to-day's  sunshine  with  to-mor- 
row's clouds?  Well,  then — here  you  are  at  that,  and 
to-day — to-day  is  ours." 

"You  are  right,  dear,  to-day  is  ours:  we'll  let  to- 
morrow take  care  of  itself." 

But  in  spite  of  that  declaration,  I  couldn't  help  busy- 
ing myself  with  the  future;  not  on  my  own  account, 
but  on  hers.  Here  was  a  young  girl  who  had  come  to 
give  me  the  blossom-time  of  her  life,  and  I  could  not 
think  of  her  solitary  old  age  without  an  indescribable 
sadness.  Would  this  passionate  young  heart,  feeling 
the  need  to  love  and  be  loved,  content  itself  with  the 
tranquil  affection  that  united  us?  Wouldn't  the  day 
come,  sooner  or  later,  when  she  would  repent  having 
come,  and  feel  that  she  had  buried  her  activities  instead 
of  finding  a  healthy  outlet  for  them?  If — if — Oh,  these 
thousand  ifs  of  a  cruel  fate — no,  I  did  not  finish  the 
vague  thought  that  troubled  me.  I  resolved  to  do  vio- 
lence to  my  distaste  for  what  is  so  prettily  called  'so- 
cial life,'  and  put  between  us  the  distraction  of  new 
faces.  This  dual  solitude  was  becoming  too  dear  to  us, 
absorbing  us  too  much.  I  threw  my  doors  wide  open, 
I  invited  all  the  most  interesting  young  people  of  the  vil- 
lage, the  school-master,  the  school-mistress,  the  beaux 
and  belles  of  the  village  and  the  country,  round  about; 
and  I  did  my  best  to  amuse  them,  and  to  create  a  solid 
bond  of  union  between  her  and  these  young  people, 
so  eager  to  receive  her  into  their  circle.  But  when  in- 
vitations began  to  rain  on  her,  she  refused  them  all 
on  some  pretext  or  other. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A    FIRE-SIDE    CHAT 

ONE  fine  January  night  Abby  had  just  refused  a 
sleigh-ride.  The  moon  was  at  its  full,  the  snow  in  fine 
condition,  and  it  was  the  young  school-master  whom 
she  had  sent  away  with  the  excuse  that  her  head  ached 
badly. 

When  the  door  was  closed,  and  we  were  sitting  once 
more  before  the  fire-place,  I  said  to  her: 

"  Abby,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  you  were  suffer- 
ing?" 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  laughed 
merrily.  Then  removing  them,  and  showing  a  face  as 
rosy  as  the  blaze  from  the  hearth  that  lighted  it,  she 
said: 

"  No,  don't  scold  me,  please.  I  haven't  the  least  bit 
of  a  headache  in  the  world.  I  have  told  a  deliberate 
lie,  but  I  really  think  that  there  are  some  lies  which 
are  better  than  the  truth.  I  couldn't  say  to  him,  frankly, 
'  No,  I  will  not  go  with  you,  because  I  would  a  thousand 
times  rather  stay  at  home.'  That  would  have  wounded 
his  self-love  quite  unnecessarily.  And  what  good  would 
have  come  from  sacrificing  my  pleasures  to  go  with 
him?  To  have  done  that  would  have  been  to  lie  more 
seriously  than  I  did.  That  would  have  been  saying  that 
I  preferred  his  society  to  yours;  and  what  an  unpar- 
donably  monstrous  lie  that  would  have  been.  I  could 
never  have  forgiven  myself  for  that  lie,  and  I  can 
really  forgive  myself  for  the  other.  It  was  forced  on 
me.  And  then,  you — you  really  wouldn't  have  liked 
me  to  leave  you  all  alone  here,  now  would  you?  Say 
'  no '  quickly  and  very  emphatically,  please,  do,  George, 
and  then  I  won't  have  anything  to  forgive  myself  for." 

206 


A   FIRE-SIDE   CHAT  207 

"  But,  my  pet,  if  it  gave  you  any  pleasure  to  go,  I 
should  willingly  stay  alone  with  my — — " 

"  Books !  Oh,  you  are  so  horribly  good  and  polite. 
I  would  give  anything  on  earth  to  see  you  frown,  and 
hear  you  say  with  disgust  and  spitef ulness :  '  Abby, 
chase  away  all  those  cursed  idiots  that  come  to  disturb 
us.  Let  us  return  to  our  tranquil,  solitary  life,  so  full 
of  charm/ 

"Haven't  you  felt  as  I  do,  George,  that  our  home 
for  the  past  few  weeks  hasn't  been  a  home,  but  a  pub- 
lic house?  Oh,  you  are  a  charming  host.  You  know 
how  to  shine,  in  making  others  shine.  All  the  young 
girls  about  here  are  madly  in  love  with  you;  and  you 
seem  so  perfectly  unconscious  of  it,  that  I  really  can't 
be  sure  whether  you  really  are,  or  whether  you  pretend. 
Really,  I  feel  it  to  be  an  indelicate  intrusion  to  come 
near  you,  when  Miss  Thompson  is  with  you.  She  al- 
ways seems  to  be  on  the  point  of  making  you  a  declara- 
tion. She  besieges  me  to  have  news  of  you.  Your  name 
is  forever  on  her  lips.  She  is  so  glad  that  I  have  come, 
not  only  on  my  own  account,  but  to  give  people  a 
chance  to  know  you.  You  have  always  been  admired, 
countless  efforts  have  been  made  to  draw  you  from 
your  solitude,  but  in  vain.  I  have  come  to  save  you — 
to  deliver  you  over  to  society:  and  while  she  keeps  on 
like  that  I  get  colder  and  silenter,  until  some  day  I 
am  sure  I  shall  quite  freeze  up,  and  you'll  have  to  throw 
me  into  the  fire-place  to  thaw  me  out.  But  she  doesn't 
take  the  least  notice  of  it.  Oh,  no.  Provided  she  scan 
have  your  name  on  her  lips,  she  is  in  an  ecstasy,  and 
sees  nothing  whatever  that  is  going  on  around  her.  It  is 
perfectly  disgusting.  And  when  I  think  that  it's  I  who 
have  led  you  into  all  that !  " 

I  threw  back  my  head;  and  the  room  rang  with  my 
laughter. 

"  Abby !    Abby !  are  you  jealous  of  Miss  Thompson  ?  " 

"Jealous!"  she  repeated  scornfully,  and  her  eyes 
sparkled  like  diamonds.  "  What  an  absurdity !  One 


208        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

can't  be  jealous  of  one's  inferiors ;  and  she  is  a  thousand 
leagues  below  me.  You  can't  be  jealous  of  fleas  and 
flies;  but  you  can  loathe  them,  and  wish  to  get  rid  of 
them  or  crush  them." 

"  You  little  savage !  Where  have  you  been  hiding  all 
that  rage,  of  which  I  hadn't  the  least  suspicion  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  dreadful,  am  I  not  ?  but  listen,  dear 
George:  let's  talk  straight  from  the  heart  again,  as  we 
did  that  Sunday  in  the  woods;  do  you  remember?" 

"  Perfectly.  But  do  we  ever  talk  in  any  other  way 
to  each  other?  " 

"  Yes,  when  our  actions  are  not  in  harmony  with 
our  will.  Answer  me  frankly  without  any  buts,  or  any 
allusions  whatever  to  me.  Do  you  like  this  bustling  of 
people  around  you  ?  " 

I  frowned,  I  stretched  my  legs  out  towards  the  fire, 
throwing  my  body  back  into  my  chair,  joined  the  ends 
of  my  fingers,  holding  them  before  my  mouth,  and 
thought  awhile,  looking  steadily  into  the  fire.  I  could 
feel  that  she  was  watching  me  intently. 

"  Now,  frankly,  remember,"  she  repeated. 

I  slowly  shook  my  head  and  answered,  "  No." 

"  Good !  Good !  "  she  cried,  clapping  her  hands  and 
then  gently  patted  my  head.  "  There  is  one  thing  I 
like  best  of  all  in  you,  you  really  won't  lie,  when  you 
are  put  on  your  honor.  Now  for  another  question. 
Do  you  think  7  like  it?" 

"  I  don't  know !  " 

"George!  You  know  I  just  praised  you  for  not  ly- 
ing. Now,  try  again." 

"  Well,  I  wanted  to  know  whether  you  would  or  not." 

"  That's  an  evasion.  Once  more :  come  now,  be 
brave." 

"  I  don't  think  you  do." 

"  Right !  but  you  said  you  wished  to  find  out  whether 
I  did  or  not?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  have  I  shown  any  particular  joy  over  the 
change  in  our  way  of  life  ?  " 


A   FIRE-SIDE   CHAT  209 

"  Not  any  delirious  joy  that  I  can  see,  but  I  may  be 
blind." 

"  No,  you  are  not,  except  to  Miss  Thompson's  inten- 
tions to  captivate  you.  But  for  fear  you  are  not 
wholly  enlightened  about  my  sentiments,  I  want  to  tell 
you  exactly  how  I  feel.  If  I  have  led  you  to  think 
that  I  have  welcomed  all  these  people,  or  have  even  re- 
ceived them  with  so  mild  a  feeling  as  indifference,  I 
have  done  wrong.  No,  it  is  rather  a  great  grief  that 
I  feel,  when  I  think  that  we,  who  really  care  for  each 
other — we  do,  don't  we?" 

I  pressed  tenderly  the  hand  that  she  had  slipped  into 
mine. 

"  Yes,  we  do.  I  shouldn't  even  have  asked  that  ques- 
tion: well,  we  who  care  for  each  other,  surround  our- 
selves by  people  that  we  don't  care  for.  Evening  after 
evening  we  are  separated;  and  listen,  dear  George,  it 
is  only  you  who  are  necessary  to  me.  I  don't  need  all 
these  young  people.  You  are  youth  and  joy  to  me. 
How  is  it  that  I  have  been  so  mute,  that  I  couldn't 
find  a  voice  to  make  you  understand  that?  It  is  humil- 
iating to  have  to  say  it  so  flatly,  so  plainly,  but  it  must 
be  said.  We  can't  go  on  wickedly  wasting  our  short 
hours  in  this  way.  I  should  like  to  make  you  feel  it, 
as  I  feel  when  I  please,  or  when  I  wound  you :  for  I  do 
wound  you  at  times.  I  see  that  you  are  afraid  of  losing 
me.  Yes,  let  me  say  it,  although  it  sounds  so  horribly 
egotistic.  You  are  afraid  of  these  few  foolish  years 
which  separate  us,  according  to  you,  but  which  to  me 
seem  rather  to  bring  us  closer  together;  for  I  need 
this  richer  life  of  yours  to  broaden  mine,  I  am  so  poor 
in  thought  that  I  need  to  draw  from  your  surplus  store. 
I  know  exactly  what  you  have  been  thinking  to  your- 
self. You've  been  saying:  It  is  wrong  and  selfish  of 
me  to  shut  her  away  from  those  of  her  age.  I  shall 
be  generous.  I  shall  surround  her  with  the  young  and 
give  her  the  distractions  which  she  needs.  Tell  me, 
didn't  you  say  all  that  to  yourself  ?  " 

"  Yes." 


210        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

"  There.  You  see  that  I  know  you  perfectly.  Why 
is  it  that  you  don't  know  me  so  well?  Am  I  a  hypo- 
crite? Do  I  say  one  thing  and  mean  another?  I  should 
like  to  live  in  a  desert  with  you,  just  to  be  all  to  you, 
as  you  are  to  me.  I  never  tire  of  you;  never,  never, 
dearest." 

Her  voice  had  grown  soft  and  low,  and  I  felt  the  tears 
back  of  it.  What  could  I  do?  I  believed  her.  I  put 
aside  my  fears.  I  let  her  know  that  she,  too,  was  all 
the  society  that  I  needed.  I  said  to  myself:  Accept 
the  day,  live  in  it,  to-morrow  isn't  yours.  When  it 
comes,  let  it  settle  its  own  affairs.  And  we  were  happy 
again.  This  chaste  love  in  which  we  held  the  senses 
chained  by  a  stern  respect  was  very  beautiful;  but  it 
was  contrary  to  nature.  It  was  fated  to  end,  but  I 
cannot  regret  the  sweet  experience  of  our  life  together 
in  which  the  days  slipped  away  like  hours  and  the  months 
like  days;  in  which  the  separation  during  the  hours  of 
repose  renewed  us  for  each  other  and  kept  away  satiety. 
She  never  wearied  me  a  moment.  I  had  with  her  a 
feeling  of  perfect  harmony,  a  sense  of  completion,  very 
different  from  the  tumultuous  ecstasy  of  the  love  of  my 
youth. 

But  she  hadn't,  with  me,  the  same  tranquil  happiness. 
There  were  days  when  she  seemed  to  avoid  me,  and 
busy  herself  with  things  in  which  I  could  take  no  part. 
But  these  days  were  followed  by  days  of  expansion 
and  thoughtless  gaiety;  and  I  said  to  myself,  this  is 
what  is  called  feminine  caprice;  and  I  took  good  care 
not  to  speak  of  her  moods,  believing  that  it  encourages 
them  to  take  notice  of  them.  There  were  days  when 
I  was  sure  that  she  was  perfectly  happy.  She  came 
and  went  about  the  house  with  the  lightness  of  a  bird. 
She  laughed,  joked,  and  teased  me,  with  the  pretty  co- 
quetry of  a  woman.  I  have  but  to  close  my  eyes  to 
see  her  before  me,  as  she  was  then. 

She  loved  color,  and  in  winter  wore,  by  preference, 
some  soft  wool  of  a  rich,  deep  red.  "  It  is  the  color  of 


A   FIRE-SIDE   CHAT  211 

life" — she  said  to  me  one  day — and,  indeed,  she  seemed 
to  warm  and  vivify  everything  by  her  presence.  But 
in  summer  a  pale  blue  or  soft  pink  were  her  favorite 
colors ;  but  she  liked  also  to  wear  white,  in  which  I  pre- 
ferred to  see  her.  The  soft,  white  skin  that  flushed  so 
quickly,  the  delicate,  pure  features,  the  little  mouth, 
the  well-shaped  head,  with  its  abundant  hair,  seemed  to 
be  brought  out  in  stronger  relief  by  white  than  by  any 
color. 

She  saw  my  pleasure  in  her  beauty,  and  often  con- 
sulted me  about  what  she  should  wear. 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  put  on  my  blue  dress  or  my 
white  one  ?  Do  you  like  this  hat  ?  " 

I  have  no  coldness  in  my  answers  for  which  to  re- 
proach myself.  To  put  a  cold,  flabby  hand  into  a  firm, 
warm  one,  whose  pressure  betrays  the  pulsations  of  the 
heart;  to  stare  with  a  wooden  face  at  another  face  that 
smiles;  to  repulse  with  a  harsh  word  the  sweet  word 
love,  are  not  offences  that  can  ever  be  charged  to  me. 

I  remember,  one  day,  when  she  had  pleased  me  and 
I  had  told  her  so,  she  turned  quickly  towards  me,  hold- 
ing out  her  hand  and  saying: 

"  How  I  thank  you  for  saying  that  to  me.  It  makes 
me  so  sure  of  you,  and  I  need  to  feel  sure.  Do  you 
think  me  the  silliest  creature  in  the  world  to  care  so 
much  about  pleasing  you?" 

"  No,  we  ought  both  of  us  to  care  about  pleasing  the 
other.  I  have  only  you,  and  you  say  you  wish  only 
me." 

"  Yes,  I  wish  only  you,  no  one  but  you." 

I  believe  that  she  was  sincere  when  she  said  it.  I 
will  be  just  to  her.  I  will  say  here,  that  whatever  I 
may  have  had  to  reproach  her  with,  later,  I  cannot,  in 
this  one  short  year  of  happiness  with  her,  recall  a  single 
serious  fault  in  her;  and  I  am  deeply  grateful  to  her 
for  that  happiness. 


CHAPTER  V 

STORM  AND  STRESS 

ANOTHER  summer  had  rolled  round  again.  We  were 
In  the  first  part  of  July.  The  weather  was  unusually 
warm  and  dry.  I  had  ceased  accompanying  Abby  to 
church,  and  usually  gave  my  Sunday  mornings  to  seri- 
ous reading  and  study.  She  had  now  charge  of  a  Sun- 
day-school class,  and  went  away  earlier,  so  that  I  had 
almost  the  whole  morning  to  myself.  About  haff  an 
hour  before  she  was  due  at  the  house,  I  very  nearly 
always  started  out  to  meet  her,  so  that  we  had  a  walk 
home  together. 

One  sultry  Sunday  morning  she  had  left  me  as  usual, 
waving  her  hand  at  the  last  turn  in  the  path  before  she 
disappeared  among  the  trees.  I  went  back  into  the 
house  with  a  smile  on  my  lips,  reflecting  on  my  hap- 
piness with  her.  I  passed  in  review  all  the  little  scenes 
of  my  life  with  her,  and  suddenly,  I  cannot  tell  how  it 
came  over  me,  any  more  than  I  can  solve  any  other  of 
the  great  mysteries  of  life,  but  I  knew  that  love,  not  in 
its  sweetness,  its  tranquility,  its  security,  had  come  into 
my  life,  but  love  in  all  its  passionate  desire,  its  bitter- 
ness, its  renunciation.  And  I  knew  that  she,  too,  loved 
me  with  the  love  that  is  cruel.  I  had  become  in  a  mo- 
ment clairvoyant.  This  was  the  meaning  of  her  moods, 
her  caprices.  A  wicked  joy  thrilled  me.  She  should 
be  mine.  There  were  countries  in  Europe,  Germany, 
for  example,  where  marriage  between  an  uncle  and  a 
niece  is  recognized  by  law.  Morality  is,  after  all,  only  a 
question  of  geography.  By  an  accident,  we  belonged  to 
a  country  that  said  no,  where  Germany  said  yes.  Was 
it  right  to  immolate  our  happiness,  because  we  hap- 
pened to  be  born  in  one  country,  rather  than  in  an- 

aia 


STORM   AND   STRESS  213 

other?  But  could  I  make  her  believe  that?  Could  I 
break  down  the  prejudice  which  I  knew  would  make 
her  feel  it  a  crime  to  be  my  wife?  I  rushed  out  of 
doors;  I  wanted  the  free  air  to  think  in.  A  prairie 
lark  soaring  over  my  head  broke  into  song.  I  threw 
myself  on  the  grass,  buried  my  head  in  my  arms,  and 
sobbed  like  a  child.  I  was  a  man,  but  my  heart  was  still 
young,  unwithered  by  vice,  my  conscience  quick.  I 
felt  the  sophistry  of  my  reasoning,  dictated  by  desire. 
Could  I  make  of  my  heart  a  nest  of  serpents?  Could 
I  wake  every  morning  with  a  new  lie  on  my  lips  to 
assuage  the  stings  of  her  conscience?  Could  I  delib- 
erately kill  in  myself  the  power  to  feel  all  these  vivid 
impersonal  joys  which  nature  gave  me — the  bird-song, 
the  limpid  azure  of  the  sky,  the  wild  flower's  grace — 
should  I  ever  know  them  again?  Should  I  stray  in  the 
forest  and  along  the  banks  of  streams,  with  the  mark 
of  Cain  on  my  forehead,  because  I  had  murdered  inno- 
cence? The  cynic,  the  man  of  the  world,  would  laugh 
at  these  confessions.  To  him,  with  his  sensibilities 
dulled,  or  extinguished  in  vice,  these  words  would  seem 
childish  and  silly;  but  in  me  the  fervid  noon  sun  had 
not  yet  dried  up  the  dew  of  the  dawn. 

All  at  once  I  felt  the  wind  blowing,  and  large  drops 
of  rain  falling.  I  rose  from  the  ground  and  hurried 
into  the  house.  The  sky  was  black  with  clouds,  and 
heavy  peals  of  thunder  rent  the  air.  I  looked  at  my 
watch.  Abby  must  have  entered  the  wood  by  this  time. 
She  had  taken  only  her  parasol  with  her,  and  wore  a 
thin,  white  muslin.  I  seized  her  rain-cloak  and  a  large 
umbrella,  and  hastened  away  to  meet  her.  I  felt  like 
an  honest  man  again,  and  resolved  to  comport  myself 
like  one.  I  felt  that  a  caress  from  me,  a  touch  of  the 
hand  was  no  longer  innocent,  v/hile  this  fire  burned  in 
my  veins;  and  that  the  more  intensely  I  loved  her,  the 
colder  I  was  in  duty  bound  to  appear.  But  my  heart 
beat  so  wildly  that  it  seemed  to  me  that  all  Concealment 
of  my  weakness  was  impossible. 


2i4        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

The  rain  came  on  heavily,  and  the  wind  blew  so  hard 
that  I  could  not  keep  the  umbrella  open.  I  had  not 
walked  above  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  when  I  heard  some 
one  laugh  back  of  a  group  of  pines,  where  the  pathway 
made  a  turn  to  the  left.  It  was  Abby's  laugh.  I  would 
have  recognized  it  among  a  hundred  voices;  something 
so  youthful,  sunny  and  full  of  cheer  in  it. 

"  Here  I  am,"  I  cried,  hastening  my  steps  to  meet 
her. 

Yes,  it  was  she;  but  she  was  not  alone.  There  was 
a  man  with  her,  who  had  taken  off  his  coat  to  put  it 
around  her  shoulders.  He  was  leaning  over  her,  hold- 
ing an  umbrella.  She  had  taken  his  arm  and  was 
looking  at  him  and  laughing,  when  I  came  upon  them; 
and  it  was  he,  not  she,  who  saw  me  first.  We  recog- 
nized each  other  immediately.  It  was  McKenzie.  I 
felt  my  face  redden  in  a  fit  of  anger  mingled  with  fear, 
like  that  which  one  might  feel  in  seeing  a  lamb  in  the 
power  of  a  wolf. 

He  was  the  first  to  speak  with  his  accustomed  air 
of  polite  ease  that  gave  his  manners  a  certain  distinc- 
tion. 

"  Good-afternoon,  Mr.  Graham.  You  are  a  little  too 
late;  but,  you  see,  I  have  been  taking  as  good  care  of 
your  niece  as  was  possible,  under  the  circumstances." 

I  remembered  that  the  first  time  we  met  we  had  ad- 
dressed each  other  as  if  we  had  just  parted.  So  we  did 
to-day;  as  if  the  three  years  of  our  separation  had  been 
but  a  few  hours.  It  never  occurred  to  me  to  say: 
"  Where  did  you  come  from  ?  "  and  "  How  are  you  ?  " 
I  accepted  his  presence  as  an  habitual  thing,  and  re- 
plied : 

"  Thank  you.  I  have  brought  her  cloak ;  you  can  take 
back  your  coat." 

He  took  the  cloak  from  my  hands,  and  quickly  re- 
moving his  coat,  replaced  it  by  her  own  mantle. 

And  Abby  laughed  and  thanked  him  with  effusion, 
adding : 


STORM   AND   STRESS  215 

"And  you  must  go  home  with  us  for  dinner.  Mr. 
McKenzie  has  told  me  that  you  are  old  friends,  George. 
What  a  pleasure  it  must  be  to  you  to  see  each  other 
again." 

"  Well,  I  can  answer  for  myself  that  it  is,"  he  re- 
plied graciously. 

I  felt  forced  to  second  the  invitation  to  dinner;  but 
I  avoided  the  question  of  pleasure,  and  we  resumed  our 
road  together,  with  this  difference,  that  it  was  I  who 
conducted  Abby,  her  arm  drawn  through  mine. 

With  the  intuition  that  serves  a  woman  instead  of 
reason,  she  saw  my  displeasure,  and  wishing  to  conceal 
it  from  McKenzie,  chattered  like  a  bird  all  the  way 
home. 

"  I  knew  very  well  you  would  be  anxious  about  me 
when  the  sky  began  to  look  threatening,  and  although 
I  was  asked  to  stop  with  the  McLeods,  I  wouldn't  have 
done  it  for  anything.  I  knew  that  at  the  worst  I  could 
only  get  thoroughly  wet.  And  what  is  a  little  clean  rain- 
water, when  you  can  put  on  dry  clothes  at  home.  Then 
I  was  sure  you  would  venture  out  in  the  storm  to  meet 
me.  But,  really,  I  had  counted  on  a  storm  much  less 
violent.  I  had  just  taken  refuge  under  that  great  tree 
to  wait  the  end  of  the  heaviest  shower,  when  all  at  once 
your  friend  appeared.  Where  from?  I  don't  know. 
The  clouds,  perhaps.  He  asked  me  where  I  was 
going,  too,  and  I  learned  that  he  was  an  old  friend  of 
yours.  Of  course,  that  was  introduction  enough,  and  I 
felt  quite  at  home  with  him  immediately.  Do  you  know 
that  he  is  very  much  like  you?  I  don't  mean  in  ap- 
pearance, exactly,  but  there  is  something  in  him  that 
reminds  me  of  you." 

"  No,"  I  said  brusauely.  "  We  do  not  at  all  resemble 
each  other." 

"  But  excuse  me,"  she  persisted,  "  I  think  you  do. 
You  both  love  solitude,  you  both  came  here  to  make 
your  home  among  these  rocks  and  trees." 

"  But  you  forget  that  I  didn't  come  here  with  a  family ; 


216        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

and  that  for  him  a  wife  and  children  helped  to  people 
the  deserted  places." 

"  Oh,"  said  Abby,  turning  round  quickly  and  address- 
ing McKenzie,  who  was  following  at  a  little  distance 
behind  us.  "  You  have  a  family,  Mr.  McKenzie  ?  " 

"  I  had  one,  Miss  Crawford.  I  have  no  longer 
a  family." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  answered  with  an  accent 
of  sympathy,  and  she  pressed  my  arm,  as  a  mute  sign 
of  regret  at  having  opened  a  wound.  And  I,  who 
knew  so  well  his  ideas  about  women  and  marriage,  did 
not  doubt  for  a  moment  that  he  had  abandoned  them; 
but,  of  course,  I  could  not  utter  my  suspicion  just  then. 
Certainly,  he  did  not  look  like  a  man  upon  whose  head 
had  fallen  one  of  those  cruel  blows  of  fate  that  age 
more  than  years  do.  Never  had  I  seen  him  look  better. 
Where  had  he  been?  What  had  he  been  doing?  Why 
had  he  come  back?  These  were  the  questions  that  an- 
noyed me  during  the  walk  home.  He  seemed  sincerely 
glad  to  see,  again,  this  wood  which  he  had  so  often 
scoured,  and  took  pains  to  show  me  that  he  was  glad 
to  see  me,  too. 

"  I  have  really  missed  you,"  he  said.  "  There  are  so 
few  people  with  whom  one  can  exchange  a  few  reason- 
able words,  and  the  mind  needs  to  stretch  its  legs,  as 
well  as  the  body.  How  often  I  have  thought  of  those 
long  winter  evenings,  when  we  used  to  talk  to  each 
other,  as  if  we  were  thinking  aloud." 

"  How  I  should  like  to  have  been  a  quiet  listener, 
there,"  said  Abby  with  enthusiasm. 

I  did  not  know  what  to  say.  He  had  disarmed  me 
with  flattery;  the  secret  anger  which  consumed  me 
began  to  abate  a  little,  and  I  could  even  give  him  a 
decent  welcome  into  the  house.  The  rain  had  ceased  by 
this  time,  but  we  were  dripping  wet,  and  our  first  care 
was  to  change  our  clothes.  I  lent  McKenzie  a  light 
gray  suit  which  fitted  him  admirably,  and  caused  Abby 
to  say: 


STORM   AND   STRESS  217 

"  There !  didn't  I  tell  you  that  you  were  alike  ?  " 

What  fixed  idea  was  this  which  she  had  got  into  her 
head,  of  finding  us  alike?  It  annoyed  me  excessively. 

While  she  was  changing  her  clothes,  taking  more 
time  to  it  than  we  had  taken,  he  had  conversed  amica- 
bly with  me,  feigning  not  to  notice  or,  it  may  be,  not 
really  seeing,  my  hostile  attitude  towards  him. 

"  Of  any  other  man  than  you,"  he  said  facetiously, 
"  I  should  refuse  to  believe  this  story  of  uncle  and 
niece,  and  would  congratulate  you  on  finding  a  com- 
panion so  amiable  and  so  pretty.  I  am  not  sure  that 
she  couldn't  reawaken  in  me  the  belief  in  a  felicity 
a  deux,  and  you  know  I  am  skeptical  to  the  last  degree 
on  such  a  probability.  But  she  has  such  a  sweet  little 
taking  air  with  her.  Just  the  sort  of  woman  one  would 
like  to  pet." 

I  reddened  with  anger,  and  might  have  replied  of- 
fensively had  not  Abby  appeared  at  this  moment. 
Never  had  I  seen  her  look  prettier.  She  had  changed 
her  white  dress  for  a  delicate  blue,  and  her  sweet  face 
was  aglow  with  health  and  happiness.  She  had  the  air 
of  a  woman  confident  that  she  pleased,  an  expression 
unusual  with  her. 

In  a  few  moments  she  had  prepared  a  delicious  cold 
lunch  for  us  and  presided  at  the  table  with  charming 
grace,  smiling,  laughing,  talking  pretty  nonsense,  full 
of  unconscious  coquetry.  I  saw  that  she  fascinated 
McKenzie.  He  hardly  took  his  eyes  from  her.  He  was 
transformed  into  another  man — full  of  deference,  and 
prettily  turned  compliments. 

When  he  was  ready  to  go,  he  expressed  a  lively  re- 
gret at  the  flight  of  time,  and  asked  permission  of  her 
to  come  again,  adding  with  inconceivable  boldness: 

"  I  have  no  need  to  ask  that  permission  of  my  old 
friend,  here.  I  know  that,  to  him,  I  am  always  wel- 
come." 

I  made  no  reply;  and  when  he  had  gone,  Abby  ap- 
proached me,  and  stroking  back  my  hair,  she  said: 


THE  JOURNAL  OF  A  RECLUSE 

"George,  you've  been  a  naughty  boy.  Why  didn't 
you  answer  your  friend?  Are  you  afraid  that  I  shall 
think  him  an  intruder,  and  be  jealous  of  him?  Well,  I 
shan't.  I  am  really  happy  to  think  that  you  can  have 
his  companionship.  He  may  come  every  day,  if  he 
likes.  I  shall  make  a  friend  of  him,  too;  and  we  shall 
be  an  incomparable  trio." 

I  drew  my  head  brusquely  from  beneath  her  hand, 
with  an  ill-humor  I  could  not  conceal. 

"  You  need  not  cultivate  him,  on  my  account,  Abby. 
He  greatly  exaggerates  the  extent  of  our  friendship. 
We  tolerated,  rather  than  loved  each  other;  that's  about 
the  whole  of  it.  His  ideas,  his  manner  of  living,  are 
totally  different  from  mine." 

"Yes,  I  know.     He  is  a  family  man." 

"Yes,  if  you  call  living  in  common  among  the  In- 
dians, a  family  man,  he  is  one.  As  for  me,  I  don't 
choose  to  mingle  my  blood  with  that  of  an  inferior  race, 
and  to  abandon  my  children  when  I  tire  of  their 
mother." 

She  flushed  scarlet. 

"  What !  do  you  mean  to  say  that  he  was  not  mar- 
ried ?  "  she  asked  faintly. 

"  And  you  mean  by  that,  that  a  clergyman  did  not 
consecrate  his  union  with  a  woman  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  there  is  no  real  marriage  without  such 
a  consecration." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that." 

"  George !  Please  don't  talk  that  way.  You  make 
me  shudder;  besides,  it  isn't  like  you.  You  are  a  little 
vexed;  and  I  understand  very  well  why.  If  I  had 
known  that  this  man  was  a  libertine  I  should  not  have 
received  him  with  so  much  cordiality.  I  thought,  with 
my  stupid  way  of  leaping  to  conclusions,  that  he  vas 
a  widower,  and  that  the  sight  of  a  friend  had  been  a 
real  joy  to  him;  and  I  really  think  it  was.  He  was 
really  very  amiable,  wasn't  he  ?  I  liked  him.  I  thought 


STORM  AND   STRESS  219 

you  were  alike,  and  that  is  why  he  didn't  seem  quite  a 
stranger  to  me." 

This  time  she  came  very  near  me,  threw  her  arm 
about  my  neck,  and,  stooping,  kissed  my  forehead.  I 
was  wild  with  love  of  her,  and  this  arm  about  my 
neck,  this  fresh  face  so  close  to  mine,  melted  all  my 
resolutions  as  if  they  had  been  wax  in  flame.  I  trem- 
bled violently,  all  my  being  seemed  to  melt  and  flow 
towards  her. 

"  My  love !  my  love !  "  I  murmured.  "  You  are  mine. 
Tell  me  that  you  are  wholly  mine  as  long  as  we  two 
live.  What  do  the  words  of  a  priest  matter  to  us,  whom 
a  great  love  has  united?"  •. 

Quick  as  a  flash  she  had  freed  herself  from  my  em- 
brace, and  cried  out  in  a  voice  to  which  pity  and  terror 
gave  an  unnatural  key: 

"  O  George !  George !  Don't  finish  what  you  are  go- 
ing to  say.  Let  me  see  you  always  as  you  really  are, 
a  thousand  times  better  and  nobler  than  I,  something 
to  which  I  can  raise  my  eyes  in  admiration,  without 
offending  God,  or  the  most  sacred  beliefs  of  my  heart. 
As  for  myself,  I  am  a  poor  weak  thing,  full  of  wicked 
thoughts  which  I  battle  against  with  all  my  might. 
But  you,  you  are  strong.  You  will  be  my  guide  and 
my  guard.  You  will  help  me  to  vanquish  myself.  Tell 
me  that  you  will,  I  beg  of  you." 

She  fell  on  her  knees  before  me,  weeping  bitterly, 
and  I  could  not  have  harmed  a  hair  of  her  head.  Her 
sorrow  had  sobered  me.  I  lifted  her  gently,  and  said: 

"  Abby,  you  have  nothing  more  to  fear.  I  forgot 
myself  for  a  moment.  You  will  forgive  me ;  but  I  shall 
never  forgive  myself." 

With  that  I  led  her  to  an  armchair,  and  hurriedly  left 
tbe  house,  tortured  with  shame,  and  blinded  with  pas- 
sion, unable  to  see  or  feel  the  right. 

I  strayed  about  aimlessly  until  nightfall ;  and  returned 
to  the  house,  dejected  and  exhausted.  I  note  this  ex- 


220        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

perience,  because  it  was  the  beginning  of  the  most  de- 
grading and  servile  condition  of  my  life.  I  was  no 
longer  the  same  man;  or,  rather,  all  that  was  base  in 
my  nature  came  to  the  surface.  I  became  a  slave  to 
jealousy,  hatred,  and  one  dominant  burning  desire.  But 
I  was  so  completely  under  the  spell  of  illusion  that  it 
seemed  to  me  that  I  had  never  fully  lived  until  now. 
In  the  passion  of  my  youth,  there  had  been  something 
exalted,  some  ever  present  consciousness  of  the  barrier 
between  myself  and  the  object  of  my  love  that  chas- 
tened and  subdued  desire.  But  in  this  passion  of  my 
maturity,  I  felt  no  barrier  but  that  erected  by  preju- 
dice, and  I  chafed  and  fretted  under  it  like  a  passion- 
ate spoiled  child.  My  sufferings  seemed  so  unnecessary, 
so  useless;  for  I  knew  that  she,  too,  loved  me. 

That  is  why  she  was  patience  itself  with  me,  during 
all  the  feverish  agitations,  despairs  and  irritations  of  this 
time,  growing  stronger,  as  I  grew  weaker.  I  cannot 
recall  this  period  without  reddening,  as  a  man  must 
redden  when  he  recalls  an  attack  of  acute  mania.  But 
it  has  helped  me  to  sympathize  where  I  might  have  been 
harsh;  and  it  has  given  me  the  right  to  speak  without 
feeble  sentimentality  or  criminal  indulgence  of  the  most 
absorbing  question  in  modern  social  life,  the  question 
of  the  rights  of  love  between  man  and  woman. 

The  histories  of  passion  are  always  the  same.  We 
give  to  its  intense  egotism  and  absorbing  selfishness,  the 
loftiest  names;  we  idealize  our  weakness  and  call  it 
strength,  and  think  that  it  absolves  us  from  all  obliga- 
tions and  duties  except  what  concerns  itself,  alone.  We 
believe  ourselves  heroes  and  heroines,  because  we  can 
feel;  and  would  set  the  world  on  fire  to  warm  our  be- 
loved's fingers.  We  would  make  the  links  of  our  chains 
firmer,  instead  of  loosening  them;  and  the  heavier  they 
grow,  the  more  we  liken  them  to  a  garland  of  flowers. 

I  lived  through  all  that;  the  little  became  the  great, 
to  me;  the  great,  little.  I  saw,  in  the  most  indifferent 
trifles,  causes  for  joy  or  chagrin.  All  the  sweet,  inno- 


STORM   AND   STRESS  221 

cent,  tranquil  happiness  which  I  had  known  with  this 
young  girl  was  gone.  McKenzie  continued  to  visit  us. 
I  should  say  visit  her.  I  suffered  tortures  from  his 
attentions  to  her,  but  I  was  too  proud  to  complain; 
and  I  even  feigned  not  to  notice  the  increasing  intimacy 
between  them. 

I  grew  taciturn,  moody.  Abby  questioned  me,  affec- 
tionately. I  said  that  I  was  tired,  and  I  was;  for  I 
worked  like  a  galley  slave,  whipped  to  my  task  by  this 
fever  of  the  mind  which  was  consuming  me. 

One  evening,  after  having  met  by  chance  Abby  and 
McKenzie  in  town,  I  was  so  unhappy  that  I  could  not 
eat  a  mouthful  of  the  dainty  supper  which  she  had  pre- 
pared. I  pushed  my  plate  aside,  and  rose  from  the 
table.  I  was  suffocating.  She  rose  also,  accompanying 
me  to  the  door,  towards  which  I  was  going. 

"  You  are  sick,  George,"  she  cried. 

"  No,  no,  not  at  all.  Don't  trouble  yourself  in  the 
least  about  me." 

"But,  where  are  you  going?" 

"  Just  out  for  a  little  walk." 

"  I'm  going  with  you." 

"  No,"  I  said,  turning  round  to  look  her  full  in  the 
face.  "I  prefer  to  be  alone." 

She  put  her  hand  on  my  arm,  and  her  face  twitched 
nervously. 

"  George,  you  never  looked  at  me  like  that  before, 
and  you  shall  not  leave  me  in  this  mood.  You  are 
angry  with  me.  Hush " — she  put  her  hand  on  my 
mouth;  and  I  moved  away  from  her,  but  stood  still 
to  listen  to  what  she  was  saying. 

"  You  must  not  say  a  word  till  you  have  listened 
to  me,  George,  dearest."  Her  soft  low  voice  full  of 
feeling  made  the  blood  leap  in  my  veins.  "  It  is  true, 
my  love.  I  did  make  an  appointment  with  him  to  meet 
him  in  town,  but  it  was  all  for  your  sake.  If  you 
knew  how  many  months  I  have  been  thinking  how  I 
could  give  you  some  pleasant  little  surprise,  give  you 


222        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

something  that  you  would  care  for.  You  are  always 
getting  something  for  me.  But  I  had  to  have  some  help, 
and  McKenzie  has  really  been  very  kind  in  the  matter. 
And  don't  ask  me  anything  more  about  it,  just  now, 
for  I  can't  give  you  the  surprise,  to-day.  But  to-morrow, 
— and  it  won't  be  but  half  a  surprise,  now  I've  spoken 
of  it,  will  it?  But  I  can't  bear  you  to  keep  on  think- 
ing wrong  of  me."  She  blushed,  she  hesitated;  and 
then,  in  a  voice  broken  with  emotion,  she  continued 
rapidly :  "  Do  have  some  pity  for  me,  George,  and  love 
me  in  the  sweet  tender  way  you  used  to  love  me.  You 
are  all  my  life.  I  have  no  thought  that  isn't  yours.  I 
am  incapable  of  thinking  of  anyone  else.  I  know  that 
you  love  me,  too;  and  that  you  have  courage  for  both 
of  us.  I  am  wax  in  your  hands,  but  you  will  not  break 
me ;  you  will  mold  me  into  something  better  than  I  am ; 
and,  dearest,  don't  misunderstand  me.  I  should  be  in- 
capable of  loving  you  so  fully,  so  fearlessly,  if  I  did  not 
feel  in  you  a  moral  force  stronger  than  mine.  I  trust 
you,  sweetheart.  I  have  suffered  very  much,  yes,  very, 
very  much ;  but  not  so  much  now  that  I  know  that  you 
love  me,  too.  Yes.  I  know  it,  and  I  see  that  I  have 
pained  you.  But  have  no  fear.  Never  shall  another 
possess  my  heart.  I  have  consecrated  my  life  to  you, 
and  we  shall  live  together  as  the  angels  live  in  heaven, 
without  fear  one  of  the  other,  and  in  perfect  confidence 
and  love." 

Her  face  beamed,  her  eyes  hung  on  me  with  a  look 
of  ecstasy.  I  believe  that  she  was  sincere,  even  now; 
and  at  that  time  I  would  have  been  a  knave  to  doubt 
her.  My  heart  expanded  in  the  warmth  of  her  affec- 
tion, as  a  flower  in  the  sunshine  of  spring.  I  cannot 
speak  of  the  happiness  of  that  hour,  succeeding  hours 
of  doubt  and  jealousy.  There  was  something  deeply  pa- 
thetic in  the  abnegation  of  this  love  profoundly  rooted 
in  nature,  yet  aspiring  to  be  purely  spiritual.  And  just 
as  words  fail  me,  now,  to  express  the  joy  of  that  hour, 
so  they  failed  me  then.  I  felt  my  heart  swell  like  a 


STORM   AND   STRESS  223 

mother's  over  a  beloved  child,  restored  to  her  from  the 
mouth  of  the  tomb.  Tears  filled  my  eyes.  I  pressed 
her  two  hands  in  mine ;  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  youth 
revived  in  me,  in  all  its  purity  and  enthusiastic  ardor, 
making  the  most  difficult  task  light  and  easy. 

When  I  look  back  and  compare  myself  at  that  time 
with  men  of  the  same  age  to-day,  I  seem  to  myself 
singularly,  perhaps  ridiculously,  ingenuous  and  young  in 
feeling.  But  all  the  quiet  events  of  my  solitary  and 
monotonous  life  for  many  years,  had  contributed  to- 
wards keeping  me  in  that  state  of  mind,  which  we  call 
youthful,  or,  if  you  like,  poetical.  My  heart  had  not 
been  exhausted  with  venal  loves;  it  was  still  sensitive, 
and  capable  of  tenderness  and  profound  feeling.  A 
strong  love  of  nature  tends  also  to  keep  open  the 
springs  of  feeling,  and  I  had  loved  this  mute  nature 
about  me,  without  reflection  and  without  restraint,  as 
we  love  all  that  is  beautiful. 

Therefore,  there  is  not  one  mature  man  in  a  hun- 
dred who  will  understand  me  when  I  say  that  I  could 
still  believe  possible  a  life  of  innocent  happiness  for 
us,  into  whose  solitude  passionate  love  had  entered. 

I  know  that  there  is  at  present  a  pseudo-scientific  way 
of  speaking  of  man  as  wholly  a  product  of  his  envi- 
ronment, chained  to  ancestral  laws  which  determine  his 
every  action  and  every  thought.  This  is  the  modern 
transformation  of  the  theologian's  gloomy  dogma  of 
predestination.  But  that  fine  unconscious  sub-stratum 
of  common  sense  which  saves  men  from  the  folly  of 
their  conclusions,  by  directing  them  in  a  systematic 
course  of  action,  diametrically  opposed  to  their  beliefs, 
keeps  them  moving  onward  in  accordance  with  the 
truth,  misunderstood  and  denied,  though  it  may  be,  that 
man  is  not  a  mere  mechanism  without  any  other  will 
than  instinct,  but  is  at  liberty  to  follow  the  highest 
aspirations  of  his  soul.  Otherwise,  there  is  no  hope  for 
the  race,  and  we  are  hopelessly  sunk  in  ancestral  slime. 

Man  is  an  animal.    Yes;  but  an  animal  that  reasons, 


224        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

that  is  capable  of  sacrificing  his  instincts  in  obedience 
to  an  ethical  law,  which  he  recognizes  as  beautiful  and 
noble.  All  progress  depends  on  that  fact. 

We  are  no  longer  living  in  a  state  of  nature,  but  in 
a  state  conformable  to  the  best  development  of  the 
intellect,  a  social  state  in  which  each  man  is  in  honor 
and  duty  bound  to  contribute  what  is  best  in  him  to 
maintain  order  and  happiness  among  the  greatest  num- 
ber; and  he  cannot  contribute  his  best  without  stifling 
the  worst  in  him;  he  cannot  make  a  law  of  unrestraint 
for  himself,  and  deny  the  privileges  of  it  to  others,  on 
the  score  that  he  is  their  superior.  Who  has  declared 
that  he  is  better  than  they?  Himself?  The  witness  is 
prejudiced. 

I  can  see  this  all  very  clearly  to-day,  and  I  have 
earned  the  right  to  say  it. 

"Let  him  not  boast  who  puts  his  armor  on 
As  he  who  puts  it  off,  the  battle  done." 

But  I  saw  only  one  thing  clearly  then,  and  that  was 
that  I  had  no  right  to  use  any  power  which  I  might 
have  over  the  woman  whom  I  loved,  to  bring  upon  her 
the  horrors  of  an  infraction  of  the  civil  law,  which 
would  have  for  her  the  aspect  of  a  crime.  The  appeal 
to  what  was  best  in  me  from  what  was  best  in  her, 
broke  the  cruel  spell  under  which  I  was  suffering,  and 
I  would  have  suffered  any  torture  before  offending  her 
without  provocation,  again.  Then,  too,  the  sweet  con- 
sciousness that  she  really  did  love  me,  and  that  I  was 
in  no  danger  of  losing  her  through  the  intrigues  of  a 
man  whom  I  knew  to  be  wholly  unworthy  of  her,  re- 
stored me  to  myself.  I  offered  her  no  caress,  I  would 
not  touch  the  soft  trembling  mouth  held  up  to  mine, 
but  contented  myself  with  looking  at  her  through  a 
mist  of  tears,  and  saying: 

"You  make  me  perfectly  happy,  my  love — light  of 
my  life.  We  are  not  angels,  or  rather  7  am  not  one; 


STORM   AND   STRESS  225 

but  I  am  not  a  devil,  either.  I  respect  you,  as  I  respect 
the  memory  of  my  mother;  and  I  will  promise  you 
that  you  will  never  again  hear  from  me  a  word  that 
she  could  not  hear,  and  smile  as  she  heard  it.  No,  no, 
little  one,  don't  cry.  I  am  just  as  much  ashamed  as 
you  are  of  my  folly.  I  confess,  frankly,  that  I  was 
jealous,  miserable  as  a  lover,  and  I  had  no  right  to  feel 
like  that.  I  ought  to  be  glad  at  whatever  makes  you 
happy.  And  I  will  try  with  all  my  heart  to  be  so.  I 
want  no  consecration  of  your  life  from  any  sense  of 
duty.  There  is  no  question,  whatever,  of  duty  between 
us,  so  far  as  the  disposal  of  our  lives  is  concerned. 
I  feel  that  I  could  lead  you  to  the  arms  of  another, 
to-morrow,  if  your  happiness  would  result  from  it.  But, 
Abby,  this  man  could  not  make  you  happy.  His  impure 
life,  his  cynical  views,  so  incapable  of  finding  an  echo 
in  your  candid  and  inexperienced  soul,  would  make  you 
wretched.  His  heart  is  worn  out.  He  is  incapable  of 
anything  but  a  transitory  and  superficial  affection,  and 
you  are  not  the  woman  to  content  yourself  with  being 
the  plaything  of  a  month.  If  you  are  to  be  a  wife  and 
mother,  I  wish  you  to  find  a  heart  warm  and  sensitive 
as  your  own,  and  blood  as  young  and  vigorous  to  mingle 
with  yours,  in  your  children." 

"  But,  why  are  you  always  thinking  of  him,  George  ? 
As  for  me,  I  think  of  no  one  but  you.  Sometimes,  I 
really  wish  I  could.  It  would  be  better  for  me;  but 
I  am  not  afraid  any  more,  dear,  that  I  am  in  the  way, 
for  I  know  you  love  me,  too." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE      SURPRISE 

THE  next  day,  after  finishing  our  dinner,  Abby  rose 
quickly,  and  removing  the  dishes  with  more  than  ordi- 
nary rapidity,  she  said: 

"You  didn't  guess  what  that  package  was,  which 
Mr.  McKenzie  brought  a  little  while  ago,  did  you? 
You're  a  good  boy;  you  haven't  asked  me  one  question 
about  it,  and  you  were  decent  to  McKenzie,  too,  which 
you  haven't  been  for  a  long  time.  Now,  you  are  going 
to  have  your  surprise,  and  I  want  you  to  tell  me  that 
you  like  what  I  have  bought  for  you." 

She  brought  from  her  room  a  large  portfolio,  which 
she  laid  on  the  table  before  me,  continuing  to  chat  away 
as  she  untied  the  ribbons  that  held  it  together. 

"  You  know  that  I  would  not  dare  to  buy  you  any 
books.  What  a  presumption  that  would  be!  You  have 
your  decided  tastes ;  and,  besides,  you  have  all  the  great 
men,  and  I  shouldn't  like  to  humiliate  either  you  or 
myself  by  putting  one  of  the  little  fellows  among  them. 
But,  you  have  hardly  any  pictures — just  that  head  of 
Erasmus,  which  you  persist  in  thinking  so  fine,  in  spite 
of  his  long  nose;  and  that  terrible,  low-browed  Savon- 
arola, uglier  still.  One  day  you  told  me  that  you  had 
seen  the  great  galleries  of  Europe,  too  young  to  enjoy 
them,  and  that  you  would  like  to  have  some  repro- 
ductions of  the  great  masters;  that  art  is  also  a  lan- 
guage, and  that  one  loves  to  see  the  ideas  of  great 
genius  expressed  on  canvas.  That  is  what  I  spoke  to 
Mr.  McKenzie  about.  I  am  so  stupid,  I  hadn't  the 
slightest  idea  how  I  should  get  them,  and  he  managed 
all  that  for  me.  I  wanted  them  for  your  birthday,  but 
he  had  to  send  abroad  for  them,  and  they  have  only 

226 


THE   SURPRISE  227 

just  come.  I  think  it  would  be  wicked  to  wait  till  your 
next  birthday,  or  until  Christmas,  when  you  might  be 
enjoying  them  all  that  time,  don't  you?" 

She  had  opened  the  portfolio  and  was  turning  over 
the  beautiful  prints  to  give  me  a  general  view  of  the 
contents  of  the  portfolio,  but  stopped  in  admiration  be- 
fore a  beautiful  copy  of  Allori's  "Judith." 

I  had  been  so  nervous  for  several  weeks  that  I  was 
in  that  state  of  morbid  susceptibility  when  a  trifle  can 
wound  or  charm  us;  and  the  unexpected  sight  of  this 
beautiful  head  recalled  the  tragic  morning  in  Florence 
with  such  vividness,  that  for  a  moment  I  thought  I 
should  swoon  with  the  shock  of  it. 

"  George,  George  dear,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ? 
You  are  as  white  as  a  sheet.  O  my  God!  you  have 
known  a  woman  like  that ! " 

"  Yes — but  I  can't  talk  of  it.  You  have  been  good 
to  give  me  these  beautiful  pictures.  I  thank  you  very 
much  for  the  pleasure  they  will  give  me,  but  I  will 
look  at  them  later." 

I  shut  the  portfolio,  rose  from  the  table,  and  left  the 
house.  I  returned  in  the  course  of  an  hour  or  two, 
tranquil,  and  resolved  to  be  cheerful.  Abby's  eyes  were 
red  and  swollen  with  tears.  I  asked  no  questions,  and 
took  no  notice  of  her  emotion.  I  was  too  much  ashamed 
of  myself  to  be  able  to  make  either  an  excuse  or  an 
apology  for  my  strange  behavior  at  noon.  I  felt  that 
I  had  acted  like  a  child ;  but  that  the  best  way  to  make 
amends  was  to  ignore  the  incident,  and  act  as  if  noth- 
ing had  happened,  so  I  said: 

"  Now,  Abby,  let's  have  the  pictures  again.  I  want 
to  look  at  them,  carefully." 

She  brought  them  to  me  in  silence,  but  before  open- 
ing the  portfolio,  she  said  with  a  cold  and  indifferent 
tone,  so  marked  that  it  betrayed  affectation: 

"  Do  you  really  wish  to  see  them,  or  do  you  think 
it  will  please  me  to  take  notice  of  them  ?  " 

I  looked  up  in  astonishment.    She  had  never  spoken 


228        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

to  me  like  that,  but  I  understood  her  waywardness,  as 
she  had  understood  mine.  Mysterious  bondage,  sweet 
and  bitter,  cruel  and  kind,  hideous  and  beautiful,  by 
what  delirium  do  we  call  it  the  noblest  sentiment  in 
life?  Pitiable  state,  when  a  smile  or  a  frown  can  make 
heaven  or  hell  for  us,  when  the  great  aims  of  life  are 
lost  in  pitiable  egotisms,  or  tremors  of  ecstasy  or  pain 
in  the  thought  of  another! 

"  Abby,"  I  said,  reproachfully,  "  do  I  need  to  tell  you 
that  I  appreciate  your  kindness,  and  am  always  deeply 
touched  when  you  think  of  me  ?  " 

"Do  I  think  of  anything  else?"  Her  voice  trem- 
bled, her  cheeks  flushed.  I  put  my  hand  on  hers,  as 
it  rested  on  the  table.  We  were  silent.  We  were  happy 
again,  but  I  only  pretended  to  look  at  the  pictures. 
However,  I  noticed  the  absence  of  the  beautiful  head 
which  I  never  saw  again;  I  think  that  she  destroyed  it. 

About  this  time  I  received  an  invitation  to  address 
a  convention  of  agriculturists  in  the  State  of  New  York, 
and  I  seized  on  the  opportunity  for  distraction  which 
it  promised  me  with  a  feeling  that  was  almost  gratitude. 
I  set  about  the  preparation  of  the  address  at  once;  and 
in  order  to  share  the  wholesome  distraction  with  Abby, 
I  furnished  her  with  a  number  of  old  journals,  from 
which  she  was  to  gather  materials  for  certain  reports 
which  I  wished  to  make.  It  did  us  both  good  to  have 
a  common  intellectual  interest  outside  of  ourselves.  We 
talked,  as  Abby  said,  like  two  old  farmers,  and  returned, 
in  a  great  measure,  to  our  former  tranquil  companion- 
ship. 

But  to  him  who  has  acquired  a  taste  for  wine,  water 
is  insipid;  so  is  friendship  after  love.  The  heart  rebels 
at  this  calmness  after  the  delicious  tumult  that  it  has 
felt.  Even  the  quarrels,  the  mutual  recriminations,  now 
that  they  are  past,  seem  infinitely  better  than  this  deadly 
stagnation,  this  creeping  paralysis  of  the  heart.  I  no- 
ticed in  Abby  a  certain  resigned  melancholy  at  times, 
but  I  dared  not  question  her  about  it,  or  show  any  so- 


THE   SURPRISE  229 

licitude,  and  I  must  have  appeared  cold  to  her  after 
the  joyous  gaiety  and  expansion  of  our  first  year  to- 
gether. But  if  she  could  have  looked  into  my  heart, 
what  a  volcano  she  would  have  seen  burning  there, 
under  the  cold  outer  crust.  How  little  we  know  each 
other!  even  we  who  live  side  by  side  and  touch  hands, 
every  day!  I  have  passed  through  the  world  almost 
wholly  unknown,  and  have  often  been  called  cold,  where 
I  have  felt  the  deepest.  It  is  so  easy  to  be  showily 
effusive,  with  a  little  surface  emotion.  I  hardly  know 
a  falser  saying  than  this,  that  out  of  the  fullness  of 
the  heart,  the  mouth  speaketh.  It  doesn't.  The  fuller 
the  heart,  the  greater  the  silence,  or  if  there  be  speech, 
the  more  halting  it  is. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE     RELAPSE 

ONE  beautiful  October  evening,  that  one  preceding 
the  day  of  my  departure  for  New  York,  we  were  sitting 
together  on  the  threshold  of  the  south  door,  looking  out 
on  the  bay.  The  leaves  were  commencing  to  take  on 
their  vivid  autumn  coloring.  The  sun  was  setting  in 
a  delicate  haze,  giving  to  the  landscape  that  soft  blurred 
effect,  at  times  much  more  beautiful  than  vivid  dis- 
tinctiveness.  Around  us,  the  most  perfect  silence. 
Abby  had  broken  it  to  say  how  much  she  would  miss 
me,  and  how  I  must  hurry  back  as  soon  as  I  could.  I 
had  said  that  that  was  my  pleasure,  too;  and  then  we 
were  silent  again. 

Suddenly,  she  said  in  a  quiet  way  that  betrayed  no 
emotion : 

"  Do  you  believe  that  if  one  has  truly  loved  once, 
one  ever  forgets  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  ceases  to  love  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"When  hope  dies,  one  ceases  to  love,  I  think." 

"  I  do  not  believe  it." 

"And  I  know  it  is  so." 

"  No."  She  raised  her  head,  and  looked  at  me  fix- 
edly. "  Excuse  me.  We  think  we  know  things  with 
our  brains,  but  the  blood  and  the  flesh,  stronger  than 
they  are,  speak  quite  differently.  I  believe  that  there 
is  somewhere,  though  perhaps  we  may  not  meet,  the 
being  who  for  us  is  supreme;  who  belongs  to  us  by 
the  rights  of  a  profound  passion,  but  from  whom  des- 
tiny, or  some  accidental  circumstance,  fatally  separates 
us.  I  believe  that  we  may  sometimes  be  mistaken,  and 
think  that  the  love  which  we  feel  is  the  supreme  love. 

230 


THE   RELAPSE  231 

Then  arise  painful  complications,  sometimes  tragedies, 
when  we  are  undeceived;  but  once  the  supreme  love 
comes,  once  master  of  us,  I  believe  that  it  is  invincible. 
You  have  never  spoken  to  me  of  your  youth,  but  I 
believe  that  you  have  once  loved  like  that,  and  that  you 
have  never  forgotten." 

I  burst  out  laughing,  but  it  was  a  nervous  laugh, 
and  I  felt  the  blood  mount  to  my  forehead. 

"  What  an  idea !  "  I  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  what  an  idea !  But  it  is  an  idea  that  I  can't 
get  rid  of,  lately.  Be  frank  with  me.  Talk  to  me  of 
her,  I  shall  listen  with  great  sympathy." 

It  flashed  over  me  at  once  that  it  was  the  Judith 
head  of  which  she  was  jealous.  Perhaps  if  I  could 
have  told  her  the  whole  story  of  that  beautiful  head,  it 
might  all  have  turned  out  differently  for  us.  But  I 
could  not  do  it.  It  was  his  story,  not  mine^  and  it 
seemed  to. profane  his  memory  to  tell  it;  so  I  said: 

"  There's  nothing  to  tell  you,  little  one.  The  happi- 
ness of  my  life,  as  I  have  so  often  told  you,  began  with 
you." 

She  put  her  hand  on  my  arm,  and  an  expression  of 
deep  pain  lay  on  her  face. 

"  You  are  not  speaking  the  truth,  George,  but  it  is 
not  necessary  to  say  anything  more.  You  love  her  still, 
or  you  could  speak  of  her.  The  most  serious  and  deep- 
est feelings  of  our  heart,  we  jealously  guard  at  the 
bottom  of  it,  and  sometimes  we  do  not  even  confess 
them  to  ourselves.  But  what's  the  use  of  talking  any 
longer." 

She  sighed  deeply,  and  rose,  saying  with  affected 
gaiety :  "  Come  with  me ;  let's  throw  stones  from  the 
edge  of  the  cliff  into  the  bay.  It's  good  exercise,  it's 
better  than  sitting  moping  here." 

She  often  had  these  sudden  caprices.  I  dare  say  all 
women  have ;  but  one  fault,  perhaps  the  most  dangerous 
of  all  for  happiness,  she  was  wholly  free  from,  and  that 
is  sulking.  Her  clouds  were  all  summer  ones,  and 


232        THE  JOURNAL1  OF  A  RECLUSE 

passed  in  an  hour.  Usually,  I  had  flexibility  enough"  to 
yield  to  all  her  moods;  but  this  evening,  I  was  sad  at 
heart.  Something  savage  and  rebellious  in  me  was 
asking  that  dangerous  question:  What's  the  use? 
What  is  to  be  the  end  of  this  misunderstanding  be- 
tween two  creatures  made  to  be  each  other's  joy? 

As  she  rose,  I  laid  my  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and 
forced  her  to  sit  down  again. 

"  No !  "  I  exclaimed,  almost  rudely.  "  Let  us  not  quit 
a  serious  conversation  for  such  childishness.  We  have 
much  to  say  to  each  other.  Let's  try  to  say  it,  this 
evening.  To-morrow,  we  shall  be  far  apart,  and  we 
neither  of  us  know  how  long  it  may  be  before  we  shall 
have  the  chance  to  talk  frankly,  again.  You  have  re- 
peatedly accused  me  of  being  unhappy  with  you.  I  have 
repeatedly  assured  you  of  the  contrary.  But  I  do  not 
need  to  accuse  you.  The  love  you  feel  for  me  is  min- 
gled with  bitterness,  suspicions,  anxieties.  It  is  never 
at  rest." 

"  And  do  you  think,"  she  interrupted  me  quickly, 
"  that  there  is  a  deep  love  which  is  at  the  same  time 
tranquil?  If  there  is,  then  I  don't  know  it.  My  love 
is  a  sea;  it  is  not  a  stagnant,  scum-covered  mill-pond." 

"  And  flood  and  ebb-tide  in  it,"  I  said  with  a  bitter 
laugh. 

"  Yes,  flood  and  ebb-tide  in  it,"  she  repeated.  "  The 
love  which  I  feel  for  you — oh,  I  mean  to  say  it  all 
out,  clearly  once,  just  once — my  love  is  something 
which  possesses  me  wholly,  which  will  finish,  I  think, 
by  killing  me.  A  happiness?  Yes,  an  ecstasy;  and  a 
wretchedness  ?  Yes — at  times,  a  martyrdom ; — but  it  has 
its  crown,  and  I  would  not  escape  it  if  I  could.  I 
belong  wholly  to  you,  and  I  would  like  to  possess  you 
in  the  same  way.  I  do  not  wish  to  share  you  with  any- 
thing. I  am  capable  of  being  jealous  of  your  work, 
your  past,  your  books — in  short,  of  anything  that  sep- 
arates me  from  you." 

"  But  not  of  McKenzie,"  I  said  sarcastically. 


THE   RELAPSE  233 

A  smile  passed  over  her  face. 

"I  thank  you  for  that  word,"  she  said.  "Don't  you 
see  why?  I  have  felt  a  keen  joy  in  your  jealousy  of 
him.  It  meant  that  you  felt  as  I  did.  But  wait,  don't 
judge  me  too  harshly,  yet.  I  only  felt  so  at  first.  I 
only  needed  the  proof:  when  I  saw  that  you,  too,  could 
suffer  for  me,  I  did  not  wish  you  to  suffer.  I  was 
eager,  then,  to  show  you  that  I  didn't  care  the  least  in 
the  world  for  him,  and  I  don't.  He  is  amusing.  I 
like  to  talk  with  him,  sometimes.  I  think  that  he  is 
really  clever;  and  he  is  always  a  perfect  gentleman 
to  me,  but  he  is  no  more  you,  than  that  bay,  yonder, 
is  the  ocean.  And  just  because  I  don't  know  what  love 
is,  without  this  restlessness,  and  doubt,  and  longing,  and 
entire  possession  of  me,  giving  me  no  rest — the  tran- 
quillity and  uniform  kindness  of  your  love  seems  to 
make  of  it  something  so  pale,  and  faded,  compared  with 
mine:  and  then  I  think  that  you  must  once  have  loved 
like  me,  so  madly  that  you  would  be  willing  to  buy 
an  hour  of  paradise  for  an  eternity  of  repentance.  Do 
I  shock  you  horribly  ?  " 

"You  do  not  shock  me  at  all;  but  when  you  speak 
so  contemptuously  of  the  tameness  of  my  love,  you 
seem  not  at  all  to  remember  that  it  was  I  who  first 
forgot  this  tie  of  blood  which  unites  us  and  separates 
us,  and  that  it  was  you  who  called  me  back  to  reason, 
and  begged  me  to  save  you,  and  not  to  ruin  you.  And, 
Abby,  I  have  never  thanked  you  for  that  appeal  to  the 
man  in  me.  I  could  not  do  it  at  the  time,  I  could  only 
bow  my  head  in  resignation  to  your  decision.  But  I 
have  thanked  you,  silently,  many  a  time  since  then. 
You  saved  us  both.  I  was  ready,  then,  to  say:  All  or 
nothing,  no  matter  the  price.  I've  thought  a  great  deal 
since  then,  and  I  know  that  the  eternity  of  repentance 
outweighs  the  hour  of  paradise,  a  million  times.  You 
have  spoken  of  my  past.  I  did  love  unhappily  one  who 
was  far,  far  above  me,  and  to  the  pain  of  this  love 
without  hope,  I  had  the  terrible  misfortune  to  offend 


234        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

her,  and  to  become  in  her  eyes  a  contemptible  creature. 
Oh,  how  wretched  I  was!  I  feel  still  pained  and  humil- 
iated, when  I  think  of  it;  but  I  have  long  ago  ceased 
to  love  her.  She  has  become  a  sort  of  dream  of  my 
youth,  almost  without  reality.  I  do  not  feel  myself 
the  same  man  who  adored  her.  Life,  work,  study,  have 
almost  effaced  her  image  in  my  mind.  But  it  is  a 
singular  fact  that  the  friendship  which  I  felt  for  her 
brother  is  still  alive.  A  great-souled  fellow  he  was;  a 
mind,  broad,  alert,  giving  of  its  superfluity  to  all  who 
surrounded  him — I  shall  miss  him  till  the  end  of  my 
life.  Therefore,  I  know  that  though  love  can  give  the 
most  exquisite  joys  and  the  keenest  pain,  it  doesn't  last 
in  its  freshness  as  friendship  does.  It  is  a  fever  that 
passes,  a  rosy  mist  through  which  we  do  not  see  dis- 
tinctly, and  in  just  proportions,  but  which  dissipates  at 
last,  and  leaves  everything  bare  and  common.  I  know 
that  seems  horrible  to  you ;  and  it  seems  horrible  to  me, 
too;  and  I  should  never  have  believed  it,  at  your  age." 

"  And  I  shall  never,  never  believe  it,  at  yours,  George. 
I  love  you,  and  I  shall  love  you,  all  my  life." 

The  tears  blurred  my  eyes.  For  a  while,  I  could  not 
speak  for  the  emotion  that  stifled  me.  She  was  silent, 
too,  looking  straight  before  her,  her  chin  resting  in  her 
hand.  When  I  was  sufficiently  master  of  myself  to 
speak,  I  said: 

"  How  I  thank  you  for  this  frank,  generous  affec- 
tion. I  don't  deserve  it,  but  I  will  try  to;  and  if  the 
day  comes  when  you  have  forgotten  what  you  have  just 
said  to  me,  be  frank,  and  if  you  wish  to  leave  me  to 
seek  happiness  elsewhere,  do  not  hesitate  a  moment  to 
tell  me." 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  began  to 
weep. 

"  You  are  very  cruel,"  she  sobbed,  "  to  think  that 
such  a  day  could  ever  arrive.  If  you  loved  me  the 
least  bit  in  the  world,  you  would  know  that  in  our 
lives  there  is  no  to-morrow.  All  the  future  is  only  a 


THE  RELAPSE  235 

great  to-day.  We  have  nothing  to  do  with  anything 
but  the  present.  Don't  speak  to  me  any  more  of  this 
frightful  to-morrow.  Isn't  to-day  sufficient  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  cry,  then  ?  "  I  asked  gently. 

"  Because  you  enrage  me  so  with  your  cold  reason ; 
and  because  the  little  reason  that  I  have  that  is  not 
effaced  by  my  heart,  tells  me  you  are  right,  as  you 
always  are.  I  am  such  a  coward,  such  a  coward ! " 

"  No,  you  are  not.  What  you  call  cowardice  is  per- 
fect health.  I  understand  you  thoroughly.  It  is  not 
long  since  I  felt,  as  you  do,  the  frightful  cruelty  of  our 
situation.  I  felt  like  taking  the  world  by  the  throat, 
and  saying :  '  I  do  not  need  you.  I  can  live  alone,  alone 
with  the  sky,  the  earth,  and  her  I  love.  You  do  not 
exist  for  me.'  I  think  I  could  still  have  enough  cour- 
age, or  rather  enough  contempt  for  the  world,  to  do  it 
without  regret ;  but  you, — and  don't  believe  that  I  think 
you  weaker  for  it,  but  rather  more  loving,  more  sensi- 
tive, more  moral, — you  could  never  bear  the  reproaches 
of  the  world  added  to  the  reproach  of  your  conscience. 
The  memory  of  your  mother " 

"  No,  no,"  she  interrupted  feebly,  "  I  could  not  bear 
that.  I  should  die  of  it,  but,  perhaps,  content — who 
knows  ?  " 

"  No,  one  does  not  die  of  reproach,  and  die  content. 
If  one  were  content,  one  wouldn't  die." 

"  You  always  have  your  answer  ready.  O  how 
tired  I  am!  How  tired!  how  tired!  If  I  could  only 
be  so  cool  and  indifferent  as  you ! " 

I  blushed  and  bit  my  lips  to  keep  back  the  emotion 
which  stifled  me.  She  was  watching  me  closely,  and 
when  I  betrayed  myself,  she  clapped  her  hands,  and 
rising,  stood  before  me,  smiling  down  at  me  with  a 
flushed,  excited  face. 

"  How  superb  you  are,  like  that !  "  she  cried.  "  You 
have  said  more  to  me  by  that  frown  and  gesture  than 
by  all  your  fine  words." 

"And  how  horribly  cruel  you  are,"  I  answered,  leap- 


236        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

ing  to  my  feet  with  a  sudden  ferocity,  and,  seizing  her 
by  the  wrists,  I  said  in  a  hoarse  voice: 

"  Will  you  live  with  me  as  my  wife,  or  as  my  sister? 
You  have  your  destiny  in  your  own  hands,  again.  Do 
not  blame  me,  if  you  do  not  choose  right.  Speak.  In 
a  few  years  we  shall  be  dust  and  ashes.  There  is  a 
flower  growing  in  our  path.  It  may  be  poisonous,  but 
it  looks  sweet  and  beautiful ;  shall  we  gather  it?  Speak ! " 

She  turned  white  as  snow. 

"  Quick,"  I  said,  and  shook  her  arm.  "  Which  shall 
it  be,  wife  or  sister?" 

"  Oh,  forgive  me,  forgive  me,  George !  Your  sister, 
your  sister  always." 

I  freed  her  instantly.  An  intense  disgust  filled  me. 
What  did  she  mean?  Why  did  she  torture  me,  play 
with  me  like  a  cat  with  a  mouse;  hold  out  a  cup  to 
my  burning  lips,  to  dash  it  to  the  earth  when  I  stooped 
to  drink? 

"  Oh,  don't  look  at  me  like  that,  George.  Kill  me 
rather.  I  know  that  I  am  a  coward,  a  wretch.  But 
don't  condemn  me  so  harshly.  I  needed  only  to  know 
that  you  love  me,  yet." 

"  Silence !  "  I  said  harshly.  "  That  word  must  never 
again  be  pronounced  between  us.  Brother  and  sister? 
Are  there  scenes  like  this,  between  them?" 

"  Say  you  forgive  me." 

She  was  trembling  so  violently,  and  there  was  in 
her  eyes  a  look  of  such  intense  pain,  that  I  must  have 
had  a  heart  of  stone  not  to  be  touched  by  it. 

"  Yes,  I  forgive  you,"  I  said  slowly.  "  You  do  not 
know  what  you  do  when  you  play  with  fire.  But  we 
must  finish  by  putting  a  little  more  distance  between 
us,  if  we  do  not  wish  to  be  burned."  An  idea  suddenly 
occurred  to  me,  and  in  consequence  of  it,  I  continued: 
"  Abby,  I  shall  not  come  back  from  New  York  as 
quickly  as  I  meant  to.  I  shall  stay  away  a  few  weeks. 
We  have  reached  a  crisis  in  our  lives  that  asks  resolu- 
tion and  a  firmness  of  will  that  we  no  longer  possess, 


THE   RELAPSE  237 

in  the  presence  of  each  other.  If  we  are  not  strong 
enough  to  wrestle  with  an  enemy,  we  must  avoid  him. 
Life  is  beautiful.  We  must  not  spoil  it  in  this  way. 
We  must  find  our  way  back  to  the  joy  that  we  have 
known.  I  won't  leave  you  all  alone,  here.  Invite  Miss 
Dudley  to  stay  with  you.  She  is  a  fine  sensible  girl, 
and  you  like  her." 

"  No,"  she  answered  excitedly.  "  You  must  not  let 
me  chase  you  away  from  home  like  this.  It  is  I  who 
will  leave.  I  shall  go  back  to  Scotland.  I  ought  never 
to  have  come  here.  Oh,  how  cruelly  I  have  been  pun- 
ished for  my  folly !  " 

With  that  she  burst  into  tears,  and  I  had  all  the 
difficulty  in  the  world  to  calm  her,  and  make  her  con- 
sent to  remain  and  invite  her  friend  to  stay  with  her. 

I  made  my  preparations  for  departure  immediately, 
and  the  next  morning  I  left  home  for  the  first  time  in 
many  years.  I  had  now  the  leisure  and  opportunity  to 
reflect  upon  the  problem  that  life  had  offered  me  for 
solution.  I  did  not  try  to  excuse  myself,  and  I  saw 
with  inexpressible  horror  that  I  could  not  count  on 
myself  to  act  upon  what  I  knew  deep  within  me  was 
right.  I  longed  with  all  my  heart  to  become  master  of 
myself,  again.  No  youthful  glamour  of  poetry  could 
any  longer  disguise  from  me  how  much  of  caprice  and 
vanity  and  self-love  and  brutal  appetite  are  mingled  in 
the  sentiment  called  love.  And  yet  with  all  that  knowl- 
edge, if  I  had  been  sure  that  I  could  have  made  Abby 
happy  by  defying  the  civil  law,  I  believe  that  I  would 
have  done  it.  But  I  knew  her  better  than  she  knew 
herself.  The  first  novelty  passed,  the  deep  moral  sub- 
stratum of  her  character  would  reassert  itself.  Over- 
whelmed with  remorse,  our  union  would  seem  a  crime 
to  her,  our  life  would  become  a  hell.  But  she  had  not 
yet  arrived  at  that  point  of  despair,  when  it  is  necessary 
to  flee  or  to  perish.  Young,  inexperienced,  loving  with 
all  the  ardor  of  a  first  passion,  unconscious  of  the  feroc- 


238        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

ity  of  the  brute  within  us,  seeing  no  real  danger  in 
our  life,  revolting  against  the  idea  of  my  growing  indif- 
ferent to  her,  wishing  with  all  her  heart  to  enchain  me 
permanently,  but  shocked,  revolted,  at  the  idea  of  a 
bond  unsanctioned  by  law,  she  was  certainly  more  un- 
happy than  I,  and  I  had  left  her  with  a  tenderness 
mingled  with  compassion,  like  the  tenderness  of  a 
mother. 

Flying  through  the  forests  on  the  train,  my  eyes  ap- 
parently fixed  on  the  landscape,  I  saw  nothing  but  her 
face  distorted  with  pain,  her  eyes  swimming  in  tears. 
It  was  her  sobs  that  I  heard,  and  not  the  whistling, 
the  shrieks,  the  incessant  noises  of  the  train;  and  per- 
haps I  had  never  loved  her  so  perfectly  as  in  these 
hours  when  I  was  trying  to  reason  myself  into  loving 
no  more.  It  is  a  frightful  hour,  that  hour  in  human 
life  when  we  say  good-by  forever  to  love.  It  seems 
as  if  the  desolation  of  death  had  sunk  into  the  soul, 
and  that  henceforth  we  are  dragging  a  corpse  and  not 
an  animated  body  through  life.  And  all  literature,  all 
the  teachings  listened  to  from  childhood,  tend  to  confirm 
us  in  this  feeling.  There  are  no  winged  words  for  the 
austere  courage  of  solitude;  love  is  the  only  theme  to 
which  the  poet  fits  his  music. 

I  tried  to  think  of  other  things,  but  my  mind  seemed 
incapable  of  freeing  itself  from  her,  and  at  the  end  of 
a  few  minutes  came  back  inevitably  to  her.  I  tried  to 
talk  with  an  old  man,  whose  sensible  ideas  might  have 
interested  me,  at  any  other  time;  but  to-day  he  bored 
me  excessively.  Everything  that  he  said  seemed  to  me 
cold,  insipid,  and  unimportant,  compared  with  this  burn- 
ing question  which  consumed  me.  To  wish  and  not  to 
wish,  to  be  the  slave  of  an  emotion,  to  feel  one's  self 
tossed  from  desire  to  desire,  like  a  cork  on  the  waves, 
what  a  miserable  fate!  But  he  who  can  reflect  may  be 
saved.  I  recognized  my  folly. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

DARKNESS 

ARRIVED  at  my  destination  in  New  York  State,  I  was 
met  by  a  delegation  who  took  me  to  the  best  private 
boarding-house  in  town,  the  hotels  being  full.  It  was 
kept  by  a  bustling  portly  woman  with  a  little  inoffen- 
sive-looking husband,  with  a  timid  apologetic  air  that 
seemed  to  ask  pardon  for  being  in  the  way.  The  posi- 
tion of  woman  in  America  very  often  reverses  the  mar- 
ital relations,  and  it  is  the  husband,  who,  in  private 
boarding-houses,  usually  receives  his  daily  bread  from 
the  hands  of  his  vigorous  spouse.  Feminine  pride  in 
adornment,  the  satisfaction  of  vanity  by  living  in  a 
large  house  in  town,  the  domination  of  social  life  by 
the  young,  in  which  the  young  girl  lives  only  to  make 
a  brilliant  show,  the  publicity  of  family  life  in  the  in- 
numerable boarding-houses  of  our  large  cities,  tend  in 
a  great  measure  to  destroy  in  a  vast  number  of  men 
the  primitive  sentiment  of  independence.  Every  board- 
ing-house is  first  of  all  the  sacrifice  of  a  home.  It 
shows  a  good  face  to  the  street,  but  it  is  desolate 
within,  huddling  a  motley  crowd,  bound  by  no  tie  but 
the  common  need  of  food  and  shelter.  But  I  needed 
just  the  feeble  splash  of  this  atmosphere  of  gossip,  with 
its  undertone  of  spite  and  envy,  to  feel  the  tranquil 
beauty  of  family  life,  where  ties  are  not  material,  but 
hearts  are  bound  together  in  loving  affection.  And 
when  I  recalled  my  life  with  Abby,  it  was  not  the  piti- 
able misunderstandings  and  tumults  of  feverish  love 
which  I  dwelt  on,  but  the  sweetness  of  innocent  gaiety, 
the  charming  simplicity  of  our  life,  far  from  all  the 
tedious  distractions  that  invade  the  home  from  social 

239 


24o        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

requirements — our  entire  sufficiency  one  to  the  other. 
What  madness  had  seized  us  and  introduced  into  our 
paradise  the  serpent  of  despair? 

I  wrote  to  her  that  I  would  return  another  man,  cured 
forever  of  my  folly,  recognizing  in  her  tender  friendship 
the  great  wealth  that  I  possessed.  I  did  not  need  to 
learn  the  same  lesson  three  times  over.  I  had  quite  got 
it  by  heart  now;  and  she  should  live  with  me  free  as 
the  birds  of  the  air,  free  to  take  flight  whenever  it 
seemed  good  to  her,  or  to  stay  with  me,  the  solace  and 
the  joy  of  my  life. 

I  received  from  her  a  letter  full  of  despair  and  bit- 
terness. She  accused  herself  of  having  made  life  insup- 
portable to  me,  of  having  driven  me  from  home.  She 
called  herself  ungrateful,  foolish,  criminal.  She  begged 
me  to  stay  away  from  her  until  she  herself  could  re- 
solve what  was  the  best  thing  for  her  to  do:  but  at 
any  rate  she  begged  me  to  forgive  her  for  any  evil  she 
had  done,  or  might  do  yet  in  the  moral  darkness  that 
shrouded  her  at  present. 

I  was  alarmed  at  the  tone  of  despair  in  the  letter,  and 
was  about  to  make  preparations  for  an  immediate  return, 
feeling  that  she  needed  me,  when  another  letter,  fol- 
lowing upon  the  heels  of  this  one,  was  as  cheerful,  as 
calm,  as  the  other  had  been  lugubrious.  She  accused 
herself,  in  this  letter,  of  a  vulgar  exaggeration  in  the 
other,  assuring  me  that  she  had  no  sooner  mailed  it 
than  she  would  have  given  anything  in  the  world  to 
have  been  able  to  recall  it ;  but  that  she  would  try  now, 
as  much  as  possible,  to  efface  the  effects  of  it.  Didn't 
I  know  that  these  black  moods  were  not  at  all  natural 
to  her?  Romantic?  Oh,  yes,  she  might  be  that,  but 
romantic  on  the  rosy  side.  She  loved  life  as  much  as  I 
did.  She  would  gather  its  roses,  and  quietly  pluck  off 
its  thorns.  She  had  been  stupid,  stupid!  stupid!  but  she 
was  beginning  to  see  dawn  on  the  horizon,  soon  it  would 
be  full  day ;  and  she  would  be  so  wise — wise  as  a  china 
doll. 


DARKNESS  241 

Who  can  ever  be  sure  that  he  knows  well  all  the  secret 
folds  of  the  human  heart?  This  letter  which  expressed 
the  most  careless  gaiety  pained  me  a  great  deal  more 
than  the  first  one,  in  which  a  real  sorrow  was  depicted. 
It  was  not  a  cold  indifference,  a  worldly  cynicism  that 
I  wished,  or  expected  from  her.  But  what  did  I  want? 
I  could  not  have  clearly  told  if  I  had  tried.  But,  piqued 
or  wounded.  I  hardly  know  which,  I  replied  briefly,  as- 
suring her  that  her  letter  had  pleased  me  very  much; 
that  we  were  both  now  on  the  road  to  wisdom,  and  that 
nothing  remained  to  do  but  to  continue  in  it,  and  that 
I  should  stay  in  New  York  a  month  longer.  It  was 
three  weeks  before  I  received  a.  reply  to  this  letter,  but, 
in  the  meantime,  I  continued  to  write  her  cheerful 
letters,  in  which  I  never  failed  to  say  that  I  should  be 
glad  to  be  back  home  with  her. 

It  was  the  truth.  I  was  frightfully  bored  among  all 
these  women,  who,  for  some  reason  or  other,  took  par- 
ticular pains  to  try  to  entertain  me.  Now,  I  have  the 
greatest  respect  for  a  woman  who  is  natural  and  good; 
and,  like  all  men,  I  am  weak  enough  to  be  susceptible  to 
the  flatteries  of  coquettish  beauty.  I  can  also  find  in 
the  conversation  of  a  bright  woman,  no  matter  what  her 
age  is,  a  lively  and  delicate  pleasure.  Indeed,  I  hardly 
know  anything  so  sweet  and  charming  as  an  aged  wo- 
man whose  heart  is  still  as  warm  as  her  brain  is  quick, 
and  in  whom  that  maternal  instinct  which  makes  the 
dominant  trait  of  every  good  woman  is  not  restricted 
to  the  limited  circle  of  her  family,  but  expands  into  a 
sweet  tenderness  that  envelops  all  who  enter  her  atmos- 
phere. I  have  been  rich  enough  in  my  life  to  know 
two  or  three  such  women,  not  more.  I  especially  re- 
member one  such,  who  was  nearly  eighty,  when  I  knew 
her;  but  she  was  a  woman  over  whose  heart  and  mind 
time  had  no  power  who  was  younger  in  the  fullness 
of  her  years  than  half  the  young  people  I  have  ever 
known,  whose  room  was  the  heart  of  the  house  which 
she  made  a  home.  She  brimmed  it  with  sunshine,  the 


242        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

cloudiest  day.  I  used  to  go  to  her,  when  I  was  fretted  or 
disappointed,  and  her  talk  was  a  tonic  to  me.  I  always 
came  away  feeling  stronger  and  fuller  of  cheer.  The 
influence  of  a  woman  like  that  is  inestimable.  But  it 
comes  from  ripeness  and  sweetness  of  character,  from 
difficulties  met,  and  struggled  with,  from  patience,  long 
suffering,  thoughtful  study,  not  from  selfish  seeking  of 
pleasure,  and  selfish  shirking  from  duty. 

But  I  have  known  far  more  women  of  another  type, 
the  type  of  the  woman  who  cannot  reconcile  herself  to 
the  years  which  gather  about  her,  whose  body  withers 
and  ages,  while  the  mind  remains  green  and  immature: 
women  who  try  in  vain  to  force  youth  to  return  to  them 
by  the  aid  of  cosmetics  and  dyes. 

We  are  in  the  habit  of  saying,  to-day,  that  there  are 
no  more  old  women.  It  always  grieves  me  to  hear  it, 
for  it  means  that  the  wide  experience,  the  large  and 
tender  tolerance  of  the  frank  and  loving  woman  exist 
no  more ;  and  that  her  place  is  filled  by  living  mani- 
kins whose  steel  heart  and  wired  brain  are  galvanized 
by  vanity  into  the  hideous  semblance  of  life. 

And  in  truth,  there  is  no  mark  of  wisdom  and  serenity 
in  the  vast  majority  of  women  nowadays,  nor  in  this 
century  that  more  than  any  other  bears  the  mark  of 
their  influence.  Listen  to  their  talk.  Not  content  with 
commas  and  periods  and  plain  type,  they  want  every 
word  underscored,  and  every  mark  an 'exclamation  point. 
As  if  the  rose-bush  would  be  so  beautiful,  were  every 
leaf  a  flower;  as  if  the  dark  green  didn't  relieve  and 
bring  out  the  vivid  coloring  of  the  rose!  And  so  I  like 
a  background  of  quiet  strength  and  serenity  in  a  woman. 
I  like  to  find  in  her  a  refuge  for  my  serious  hours,  a  well 
of  quiet  waters,  cool,  refreshing,  when  I  am  hot  and 
thirsty.  I  like  to  find  in  her  real  depth  of  feeling,  and 
not  mere  sentimental  soapsuds  blown  into  an  eye-catch- 
ing bubble  that  is  ninety-nine  parts  air. 

There  was  at  this  time  a  vulgar  superstition  in  vogue 
among  the  half-educated,  among  whom,  by  the  way, 


DARKNESS  243 

the  vulgar  superstitions  of  our  age  find  their  largest  fol- 
lowing; and  it  called  itself  spiritualism,  though  its  chief 
business  was  materializing.  One  heard,  also,  a  great 
deal  about  theosophy  and  various  other  osophies  and 
isms,  all  tending  to,  and  growing  out  of,  exaggerated 
forms  of  individual  egotism.  Here  again,  women  were 
the  readiest  and  most  numerous  converts,  some  of  them 
imagining  themselves  all  spirit,  all  thought,  some  of 
them  laying  claim  to  recollections  of  a  former  existence 
on  this  earth,  when  they  were  great  actresses,  or  fas- 
cinating beauties  of  international  reputation. 

I  contrasted  these  superstitious  follies,  with  Abby's 
piety,  and  it  smelt  clean  and  sweet  to  me,  in  comparison. 
At  least,  it  was  free  from  the  foul  inflation  of  egotism. 
I  longed  to  see  her  again;  and  at  last,  feeling  myself 
strong  enough  to  carry  out  my  resolutions,  I  started 
back  home,  a  smile  upon  my  lips.  I  made  a  score  of 
plans  to  live  more  wisely,  more  broadly.  I  saw  that  in 
many  ways,  I  had  been  very  selfish,  and  that  my  life 
with  Abby  was  tending  to  make  us  both  more  selfish 
still.  We  had  no  right  to  shut  ourselves  up  in  our  joy 
like  two  mites  in  a  cheese.  I  resolved  in  my  mind  sev- 
eral ways  of  benefiting  the  community  near  us,  and 
thought  what  pleasure  it  would  give  her  to  be  asso- 
ciated with  me  in  these  plans. 

I  had  written  to  her  telling  her  the  exact  day  on 
which  I  should  arrive,  so  that  she  might  have  the  joy 
of  anticipating  my  return.  I  fancied  her  counting  the 
hours,  thinking  of  nothing  else.  She  would  have  the 
house  in  perfect  order.  The  train  would  not  arrive  until 
late,  and  I  wrote  her  not  to  think  of  coming  to  meet  me, 
but  something  told  me  that  she  would  disobey  me,  and, 
down  in  my  heart,  I  should  be  glad  of  that  disobedience, 
and  would  scold  her  very  sweetly  for  it.  That  is  why  I 
searched  eagerly  all  the  faces  of  the  women  at  the  sta- 
tion. But  the  night  was  cold ;  a  thick  mist  covered  the 
earth,  and  I  knew  very  well  why  she  had  stayed  at  home. 
She  wished  to  keep  up  the  fire,  so  that  I  should  find 


244        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

the  comfort  which  I  should  need,  after  a  long  walk  in 
the  cold  mist.  But  I  was  too  impatient  to  get  home  at 
once,  so  I  hired  a  carriage.  My  heart  beat  with  an 
ardor  that  would  seem  to  be  a  protest  against  the  idea 
that  my  love  was  transformed  into  friendship;  but  it 
really  was  an  ardor  quite  pure,  whose  transport  was  half 
the  joy  of  giving  joy,  of  showing  that  I  had  come  back 
not  less  loving,  but  no  longer  the  slave  of  an  emotion. 
The  sentiment  of  honor  had  triumphed  over  my  weak- 
ness. I  rejoiced  unselfishly  in  the  thought  of  this  young 
life  attached  to  mine.  I  fancied  her  rosy  with  pleas- 
ure, her  heart  beating  faster,  too,  as  the  time  for  my 
arrival  approached.  I  saw  the  little  table  set  for  two,  a 
huge  pine  log  crackling  in  the  fire-place,  and  adding  its 
red  light  to  that  of  the  evening  lamp.  Oh,  how  good 
it  is,  this  home  coming,  after  the  cold  indifference  of  the 
world ! 

I  dismissed  the  cabman  at  the  foot  of  the  winding 
pathway  that  led  to  the  house,  glad  to  put  a  little  solitude 
and  silence  before  my  great  joy.  It  was  like  a  mute 
prayer  of  thankfulness.  I  plunged  into  the  shade  of  the 
tall  forest  trees  that  quite  concealed  the  house.  A  few 
minutes  more,  and  I  should  have  the  first  glimpse  of  it, 
in  the  beam  of  light  that  would  send  its  welcome  to  me 
through  the  darkness.  O  sublime  folly  of  the  human 
heart!  My  eyes  moistened  at  thought  of  that  bright 
beam  which  was  to  salute  me  like  a  word  from  her.  Oh, 
a  thousand  blessings  on  her  forever!  My  joy,  my  pride! 
Here  I  am  at  the  turn  of  the  pathway,  my  eyes  hungry 
and  thirsty  for  that  light.  It  was  not  there.  What  a 
child  I  was  to  feel  this  sudden  sinking  of  the  heart — 
this  keen  disappointment.  On! — on! — I  was  too  far 
away  yet,  the  mist  concealed  it,  of  course.  I  started  to 
run,  my  eyes  straining  the  darkness  as  if  my  life  de- 
pended on  this  ruddy  beam.  Nothing  yet.  She  had 
drawn  down  the  curtains,  of  course.  She  wished  to  shut 
in  all  this  ruddy  warmth  that  I  might  say,  "  How  beauti- 
ful and  cheerful  it  is  here !  What  a  contrast  to  the  cold 


DARKNESS  245 

and  gloom  outside."  In  a  moment  I  was  at  the  door. 
I  put  my  hand  on  the  knob  and  tried  to  turn  it,  but  it 
would  not  yield.  Oh,  she  was  afraid !  I  knocked  loudly. 
I  waited.  No  answer  came.  The  minutes  seemed  hours. 
Had  she  gone  to  visit  one  of  her  friends?  Then,  she 
had  not  received  my  letter.  What  a  pity!  I  wanted  to 
see  her,  then  and  there.  A  feeling  of  bitter  disappoint- 
ment, akin  to  despair,  seized  me.  I  rummaged  in  my 
pocket  for  a  key,  but  my  trembling  and  impatient  hands 
could  not  find  the  keyhole.  The  damp  fog  enveloped  me 
like  a  wet  rag.  I  lighted  a  match.  It  burned  a  moment, 
and  went  out.  I  lighted  another,  found  the  keyhole  and 
with  a  push  flung  open  the  door  and  entered  the  house. 
All  was  black  and  cold ;  and  that  musty,  sickening  odor 
of  a  house  long  shut  up,  assailed  my  nostrils.  My  heart 
felt  like  lead.  Was  she  dead  ?  "  Abby !  Abby !  "  I  cried 
in  terror,  as  if  I  could  recall  her  from  the  tomb.  "O 
Abby !  Abby !  My -God,  where  are  you  ?  " 

I  struck  another  match,  found  the  lamp  and  lighted 
it.  I  looked  around  me  in  amazement,  almost  ready  to 
swoon  in  terror  and  despair.  I  rushed  with  the  lamp 
into  her  room.  It  was  stripped  bare  of  all  the  pretty 
little  decorations  which  she  had  put  there.  Not  a  dress 
on  the  hooks,  her  trunk  and  her  valise  gone.  My  blood 
was  on  fire.  My  temples  beat  like  sledge-hammers.  I 
was  stifling.  I  trembled  so  violently  that  I  feared  to 
let  fall  the  lamp,  and  approached  the  table  to  put  it  down. 
There,  fastened  to  the  tablecloth  with  a  large  pin,  was 
a  sheet  of  paper,  closely  written  over.  I  seized  it,  and 
devoured  it.  So  long  as  I  live,  I  shall  never  forget 
these  lines  that  were  written  on  it: 

"  I  have  never  loved  you  so  dearly  as  at  this  moment, 
when  I  leave  you  forever.  Do  not  look  for  me.  Do  not 
seek  to  know  how  much  I  suffer.  Do  not  judge  me. 
Do  not  blame  me.  I  am  going  away  with  him.  I  could 
not  go  alone.  I  was  too  cowardly  to  die.  There  is 
still  in  the  world  one  being  to  whom  I  am  dear.  I 


246        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

shall  try  to  be  faithful  to  him  except  in  thought.  There 
— God  help  me!  I  am  wholly  yours.  You  believe  in 
the  remedy  of  time.  I  do  not.  But  there  is  one,  per- 
haps, and  I  risk  all  on  this  great  perhaps;  but  only  on 
one  condition,  and  that  is,  that  I  shall  never  see  you 
any  more.  Good-by!  good-by!  good-by,  forever!  O 
my  only  love!  I  have  one  consolation  in  this  dreadful 
hour,  and  that  is  that  I  shall  never  again  grieve  you, 
never  again  drive  you  from  home." 

I  cannot  describe  the  delirium  of  pain  into  which  this 
letter  plunged  me.  The  paper  fell  from  my  hands.  The 
blood  seemed  to  congeal  about  my  heart.  The  blow  had 
struck  with  all  its  force.  I  have  great  natural  vigor.  I 
never  swooned  in  my  life,  but,  for  a  moment,  I  thought 
that  I  was  going  to  lose  consciousness.  I  staggered 
like  a  drunken  man.  An  immense  gulf  had  yawned 
before  me,  swallowing  up  all  my  happiness. 

I  picked  up  the  paper,  and  looked  for  the  date.  It 
bore  that  of  the  third  day  after  my  departure.  A  futile 
rage  succeeded  my  despair.  I  tore  the  letter  into  a 
thousand  fragments.  If  she  had  stood  before  me,  at 
this  moment,  I  could  have  killed  her,  in  the  flood  of 
hatred  and  contempt  that  swept  over  me.  She  had 
wantonly  deceived  me.  She  had  kept  alive  my  confi- 
dence in  her,  in  order  to  use  it  to  betray  me.  I  drew 
from  my  pocket  the  letters  which  she  had  written,  though 
I  had  no  need  to  do  so,  to  know  their  contents.  I  ran 
rapidly  through  them,  trying  to  read  in  them  her  pur- 
pose, in  the  light  of  this  discovery;  but  saw  no  trace 
of  it.  I  destroyed  them,  also.  I  would  have  liked  to 
destroy  and  efface  her  memory  in  my  heart,  if  that 
were  possible.  I  could  have  borne  the  loss  of  her  with 
patience,  if  she  had  been  open  and  frank  with  me;  but 
to  steal  away  in  this  dastardly  manner,  to  keep  up  the 
farce  of  our  undisturbed  relations  in  the  very  heart  of 
her  treachery,  that  was  unpardonable.  There  came  over 
me  the  bitterest  humiliation  of  a  proud  man,  that  of 


DARKNESS  247 

having  been  hoodwinked,  of  having  taken  base  metal 
for  gold.  As  I  write  now,  I  would  not,  for  a  great 
deal,  think  that  I  had  never  in  my  life  been  generous 
enough  to  commit  a  folly,  never  truthful  and  trustful 
enough  to  have  been  deceived.  But  in  the  first  fierce 
sting  and  pain  of  this  blow,  I  cursed  my  folly,  and  I 
said  to  myself :  "  If  you  shed  one  tear,  George  Graham, 
I  shall  kill  you !  I  shall  kill  you !  "  and  burying  my  head 
in  my  hands,  I  sat  with  hot,  dry  eyes,  and  thought  it 
all  over.  Why  should  I  weep  for  the  loss  of  a  glass 
bead  that  I  had  taken  for  a  diamond?  What  a  weak, 
sentimental  puling  ass  I  had  been  to  fall  in  love  with 
a  pair  of  bright  eyes  and  a  soft  voice,  and  stake  my 
happiness  on  a  smile.  I,  a  man  grown,  a  man  whom 
years  might  have  taught,  were  there  anything  teachable 
in  him.  Coward!  slave!  that  I  was.  I  had  always 
weakly  run  away  from  pain,  as  if  it  hadn't  wings  where 
I  had  legs,  and  couldn't  catch  me  and  strangle  me  with 
its  pitiless  hands.  Strangle  me?  No!  It  had  never 
strangled  me,  yet,  and  it  shouldn't  now.  There  was 
something  in  me  that  it  couldn't  reach,  some  ever-green 
sprig  of  life  that  it  could  not  blast.  I  was  like  a  man 
to  whom  a  delirium  gives  muscles  of  steel.  All  the 
man  in  me  cried  out:  Up,  up  and  onward!  Work — 
toil — change  night  into  day,  if  need  be,  but  make  some- 
thing of  your  life.  You  have  been  frittering  away  your 
leisure  in  the  most  useless  and  absurd  reveries.  You 
have  grown,  before,  under  the  baptism  of  grief.  You 
will  grow  again.  Never  again  will  you  trail  your  man- 
hood through  the  narrow,  dirty  stream  of  sentimental- 
ity, you  will  bathe  in  the  boundless  ocean  of  truth.  Its 
cold  pure  waters  will  give  back  vigor  to  your  flaccid 
muscles.  Look  steadily  into  the  abyss  until  your  eyes 
are  used  to  the  darkness,  and  you  will  see  emerge  from 
it  the  forms  of  the  great  souls  of  all  ages.  Listen,  and 
you  will  hear  their  sighs  and  groans  transformed  into 
melody. 

There  are  hours  when  a  line  of  poetry,  a  great  thought 


248        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

speaks  to  us  for  the  first  time.  We  have  read  it  a  thou- 
sand times  without  having  seized  its  significance;  but 
to-day  the  line  is  luminous;  it  has  found  a  penetrating 
voice,  and  we  tremble  with  sympathy  as  we  listen.  That 
night  I  read  "  King  Lear." ' 

I,  too,  had  dared  to  stake  my  happiness  on  another, 
and  I  was  to  be  punished  for  the  folly,  as  if  it  had  been 
a  crime.  But  liberty,  health,  vigor  were  still  mine,  and 
the  last  word  had  not  been  said.  But  there  was  one  rock 
I  wished  to  avoid.  I  did  not  wish  to  be  a  cynic.  I  had 
a  horror  of  pessimism — that  hardening  of  the  heart 
after  bitter  experiences.  I  wanted  calm,  but  not  stagna- 
tion ;  breadth,  but  not  vagueness  of  view ;  liberty  of  the 
heart,  but  not  cold  indifference.  I  wished  to  profit  by 
my  pain,  rather  than  to  forget  it.  Of  course,  I  did  not 
feel  these  desires  so  strong  at  first.  It  was  pride  that 
particularly  dominated  me,  the  instinct  of  self-preserva- 
tion, under  a  disagreeable  form.  But  in  the  midst  of 
all  these  efforts  and  aspirations,  the  image  of  the  woman 
whom  I  had  loved  never  left  me,  for  a  moment.  A  great 
love  is  stunned,  not  killed,  at  the  first  blow  of  treachery, 
and  it  dies  hard;  for  it  is  rooted  in  all  the  fibers  of  our 
being,  mingled  with  our  blood  and  our  brain.  But 
what  hell  is  comparable  to  that  of  being  condemned 
to  love  that  which  we  neither  respect  nor  esteem?  To 
this  first  hour  of  supreme  misery,  of  contempt  mingled 
with  wounded  love,  succeeded  long  hours  of  tenderness, 
in  which  the  wound  pulsated  painfully  and  all  my  being 
seemed  to  circle  around  her,  and  to  cry  out  for  an  as- 
surance that  she  was  not  severed  wholly  from  me.  To 
reason  over  a  wound  does  not  cure  us  of  its  pain. 
Time  alone  does  that.  Still,  I  struggled  with  all  my 
power  to  overcome  the  weakness  of  my  heart.  But  all 
this  repressed  tenderness  within  me  made  me  tremu- 
lously sensitive  to  the  least  touch  of  beauty  or  emotion. 
I  often  felt  the  tears  rise  to  my  eyes  at  sight  of  a  superb 
sunset,  or  at  the  sweet  face  of  a  child  looking  up  trust- 
fully into  mine.  But  I  knew  that  this  extreme  sensi- 


DARKNESS  249 

bility  was  morbid — the  effort  of  the  soul  to  throw  off 
its  pain. 

I  had  stretched  out  my  arms  towards  the  impossible, 
without  seeing  the  snare  at  my  feet.  I  had  fallen  into 
it,  and,  mangled  and  suffering,  I  moved  about  feverishly, 
waiting  for  the  hand  of  the  deliverer,  and  the  dawn  of 
a  new  day.  It  was  a  long  time  coming,  this  dawn.  The 
shadows  lasted  two  long  years.  I  still  remember  the 
first  day  when  she  was  not  my  first  thought  in  waking, 
my  last,  when  I  sank  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER   IX 

DAWN 

IT  was  a  bright  day  in  early  summer;  a  bird  had 
alighted  on  the  window  sill,  near  my  bed.  I  heard  its 
cheerful  twitterings  and,  waking,  saw  its  bright  eye 
fixed  on  me.  I  smiled.  I  put  my  hand  out  gently,  and 
it  flew  away,  but  I  rose  with  a  reinforcement  of  vigor 
that  I  had  not  felt  in  a  long  time.  The  morning  sun  was 
sparkling  in  the  dew ;  everything  about  me  was  so  fresh 
and  young  in  this  sweet  bright  light,  that  I,  too,  seemed 
to  share  in  its  youthful  vigor.  I  dressed  myself  in  haste, 
prepared  a  light  breakfast,  and  then,  as  I  sat  down  to 
eat  it,  she  came,  suddenly,  into  my  mind,  but  not  with 
the  vivid  distinctness  of  old,  but  as  if  faded,  obliter- 
ated; no  longer  a  part  of  me.  It  was  finished;  time 
and  work  had  conquered.  I  belonged  to  myself  once 
more,  reborn  into  tranquil  strength. 

I  faced  the  future  again  with  a  light  heart.  I  asked 
nothing  more  of  it  than  health  and  an  open  mind.  The 
dream  of  happiness  in  love  had  faded  away,  never  to 
revive;  for  I  am  not  of  those  whose  heart  easily  in- 
flamed renews,  again  and  again,  the  same  experience. 
I  had  loved  twice,  with  all  my  heart,  with  all  my  mind, 
and  with  all  my  strength;  I  was  exhausted  for  that  ex- 
perience ;  but  still  capable  of  warm  and  generous  feeling. 
More  than  half  of  my  life  was  gone,  but  I  might  still 
reasonably  count  on  twenty  years  more.  I  had  all  the 
money  that  I  wanted,  that  is  to  say,  all  that  I  needed. 
I  passionately  loved  books,  but  I  had  no  creative  gen- 
ius, only  some  little  critical  talent.  It  was  not  enough 
to  make  me  a  power  in  directing  the  taste  of  my  con- 
temporaries; but  just  enough  to  make  me  fastidious, 
and  prevent  me  from  joining  the  great  army  of  the 
mediocre,  who  have  invaded  literature  in  our  day. 

250 


DAWN  251 

It  is  only  the  Greeks  who  have  ever  realized  the  dan- 
ger of  confiding  the  same  doctrines  to  everybody.  Mod- 
ern thought  is  suffering  from  the  invention  of  print- 
ing and  the  institution  of  popular  education.  Formerly, 
it  was  only  men  of  genius  who  devoted  themselves  to 
creating  works  of  art  and  literature,  and  they  created 
for  the  pleasure  and  instruction  of  a  superior  class  of 
readers.  But,  to-day,  is  the  reign  of  mediocrity.  The 
man  of  genius  is  replaced  by  the  man  of  talent,  or  the 
glib  man,  who  no  longer  speaks  to  the  highest  intelli- 
gence, but  to  the  average  mind.  But  the  average  mind 
lives  in  the  little  things  of  daily  life.  It  has  not  wings 
with  which  to  soar  above  the  heights  for  the  sake  of 
a  superb  outlook.  It  loves  the  easy,  not  the  difficult. 
Its  incitation  to  knowledge  are  curiosity  or  envy.  It 
wishes  emotions,  not  thoughts.  It  is  the  child's  mind, 
never  long  content  with  one  thing,  avid  always  of  what 
is  new,  eager  for  sensation.  And  here  the  childishness 
ceases,  and  curiosity  becomes  prurience,  and  for  the 
sake  of  a  sensation,  the  mind  willingly  lends  itself  as  a 
sewer  for  all  the  filth  of  humanity  to  drip  through. 

Who  cares  now  for  the  real  value  of  things,  for  that 
which  lies  below  the  surface?  Who  prefers  perfect 
courage,  perfect  sincerity,  to  weak  compliance  and  flat- 
tering illusions?  Not  many:  and  yet,  I  think  that  I 
can  class  myself  among  the  lovers  of  truth  and  cour- 
age. I  knew,  therefore,  how  to  choose  and  to  love  what 
is  fine  in  literature,  and  I  would  willingly  have  passed 
my  life  in  the  enjoyment  of  my  leisure  and  my  books, 
if  my  conscience  had  not  told  me  that  my  sun  had 
not  yet  sunk  low  enough  on  the  horizon  to  warrant  me 
in  folding  my  arms  and  taking  my  ease. 

The  inner  voice  kept  asking  me :  "  Have  you  received 
all  these  gifts  of  leisure  to  use  them  on  yourself?  Have 
you  been  fertilized  by  pain  to  bear  no  fruits?  Are  you 
but  an  animal  to  graze  peacefully  among  the  tall  grass 
in  your  corner  of  the  meadow,  then  fatten  and  die?" 

Free  from  personal  sorrow,  this  spur  pricked  me  more 


252        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A  RECLUSE 

and  more  keenly.  Placed  in  circumstances  very  favor- 
able for  becoming  very  rich,  I  might  have  turned  my 
attention  to  commerce,  especially,  become  the  prime 
mover  of  material  prosperity  to  a  growing  community, 
represented  it  politically,  and  been  called  a  man  of  in- 
fluence. But  this  influence  wasn't  intimate  enough  to 
satisfy  me.  I  had  seen  many  of  these  public  men,  in 
my  time,  ruling  their  little  world  as  from  a  pedestal, 
yet  touching  but  superficially,  and  through  purely  ma- 
terial interests,  all  those  with  whom  they  came  into  con- 
tact, and  passing,  they  left  no  trace  of  themselves.  The 
poorest  school-master,  guided  by  a  sense  of  right,  does 
more  in  a  day  than  such  men  in  a  year:  for  his  mind 
has  awakened  the  intelligence  of  another. 

Of  this  period  of  doubt  and  hesitation,  I  especially 
remember  one  day  in  August  when  I  was  taking  a  walk 
along  the  edge  of  a  deep  ravine  where  a  stream  of 
water  flowed  over  a  rough,  pebbly  bed.  I  was  thinking 
of  my  mother,  and  her  memory  returned  to  me  puri- 
fied, exalted  in  its  heroic  abnegation.  She  had,  for  all 
her  philosophy,  no  other  precept  than  resignation  to  a 
divine  will:  but  she  bore  her  daily  crosses  and  daily 
burdens  with  more  sweetness  than  anyone  whom  I  had 
ever  known.  My  heart  hungered  after  her,  just  an  hour 
of  her  presence,  to  lay  my  head  in  her  lap,  to  feel  her 
soft  hand  stroke  my  hair,  and  hear  the  quiet  voice  utter 
some  word  of  love  or  consolation.  I  sat  down  at  the 
foot  of  a  large  tree;  the  rustling  of  the  leaves  in  the 
breeze  filled  my  ears  with  a  vague  murmur.  I  fell  into 
one  of  those  delicious  reveries,  from  which  we  come 
out  strengthened,  calmed,  contented.  I  don't  know  how 
long  I  sat  there,  but  when  I  rose  I  noticed  at  my  feet 
some  broken  fragments  of  rock,  bearing  the  fluted  im- 
press of  a  shell.  It  was  a  voice  from  the  past  whis- 
pering again  to  me,  "  Leave  thy  trace  before  thou 
diest." 

Returning  home,  I  surveyed  my  large  tract  of  land, 
ten  times  larger  than  my  needs.  Did  it  belong  to  me 


DAWN  253 

then?  No.  What  should  I  do  with  it?  Who  was  to 
come  after  me  to  claim  it?  An  idea  flashed  through 
my  mind.  In  the  town  near  by  were  many  youths  grow- 
ing up  in  indolence  and  poverty — their  days  passing 
without  reflection,  without  duties.  There  was  my  task. 
These  boys  belonged  to  me,  by  my  power  to  help  them. 
Even  if  I  could  make  of  but  one  of  them  a  dutiful  citi- 
zen, would  it  not  be  worth  while?  I  had  no  son  to  call 
me  father;  but  the  father-heart  was  big  in  me,  and  I 
could  do  vicarious  duty  here,  and  render  a  service  to  the 
country  that  had  sheltered  and  fed  me  so  long.  But 
how  should  I  set  about  it?  The  human  soul  is  not  a 
piece  of  clay  that  :can  be  molded  into  the  form  we  will. 
I  was  not  a  dupe  to  what  is  called  the  influence  of  en- 
vironment, which,  as  generally  interpreted,  means  that 
you  can  grow  grapes  of  thorns.  I  knew  that  that  couldn't 
be  done.  But  how  look  through  this  thick  layer  of  flesh, 
and  know  of  a  truth  that  the  soul  in  it  would  repay 
the  trouble  taken  in  cultivating  it?  For  with  regard  to 
this  subject,  also,  of  education,  I  was  no  longer  a  senti- 
mentalist, and  did  not  believe  that  it  could  supply  de- 
fects of  nature. 

Every  naturalist  knows  that  Nature  is  prodigal,  be- 
cause she  does  not  intend  to  fail  in  the  single  design  on 
which  she  is  bent:  namely,  that  of  reproducing  herself 
in  a  thousand  forms.  The  oak  casts  its  acorns  to  the 
ground  by  thousands,  so  that  one  or  two  may  have  the 
good  fortune  to  live.  It  is  life  that  she  loves,  and  she 
breathes  the  breath  of  it  as  willingly  into  a  rat  as  into 
man ;  and  when  man  in  his  pride  calls  himself  her  fa- 
vorite, and  even  dares  to  try  to  separate  himself  from 
her,  by  ignoring  her  laws,  she  strikes  him  with  sterility. 
She  has  no  interest  whatever  in  his  intelligence:  it 
is  his  body  that  she  wants,  and  this  is  one  of  those 
crude  facts  that  we  cannot  too  often  repeat  to  ourselves ; 
for  at  present,  as  in  the  days  of  Rousseau,  there  is  a 
very  great  deal  of  false  sentiment  with  regard  to  nature. 
I  had  been  living  for  twenty  years  alongside  Indian 


254        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

tribes,  who  were  living  according  to  nature:  that  is, 
according  to  the  rats  of  the  field.  I  saw  them  degen- 
erate at  the  approach  of  civilization,  not  because  civi- 
lization is  degenerating,  but  because  they  could  not  as- 
similate it.  The  most  natural  food  in  a  feeble  stomach, 
that  cannot  do  its  work,  may  poison  the  system:  and  as 
I  have  said  before,  the  United  States,  in  giving  itself 
the  enormous  and  impossible  task  of  civilizing  the  In- 
dian, has  adopted  the  most  refined  means  of  extermi- 
nating a  rude  and  hardy  race. 

In  a  similar  way,  there  are,  in  the  midst  of  our  most 
flourishing  civilizations,  great  numbers  of  so-called  de- 
generates who  are  at  bottom  nothing  but  barbarians  and 
may  sooner  or  later  find  themselves  in  our  asylums  and 
in  our  prisons.  The  true  degenerate  is  a  fallen  creature, 
whose  nerves  are  wrecked  by  abuse.  The  barbarian  is 
a  creature  who  has  never  risen.  His  nerves  are  of  steel, 
he  knows  none  of  the  refinements  of  feeling  of  which 
the  degenerate  is  frequently  capable,  and  which  often 
awaken  in  the  unthinking  a  misplaced  sympathy.  The 
degenerate  may  be  a  poet,  may  pass  in  the  world  for 
one  of  its  rarest  souls  because  he  can  weep  over  the 
breaking  of  a  butterfly's  wing.  But  beware  of  him. 
Don't  make  him  your  friend,  if  you  are  a  man;  don't 
love  him,  if  you  are  a  woman.  He  is  capable  of  the 
most  frightful  cruelties,  the  most  revolting  vices.  He 
can  rend  like  a  tiger  and  stab  like  an  assassin.  He  has 
no  sense  of  proportion.  He  will  tell  you  that  the  im- 
prisonment of  a  white  mouse  in  a  cage  affects  him  with 
as  deep  a  rage  of  hate  and  pity,  as  the  enslavement  of 
a  nation.  He  is  as  unstable  as  water;  he  will  fall  on 
your  bosom  to-day,  he  will  bite  you  to-morrow.  He  is 
to  himself  the  center  of  the  universe.  The  sun  shines 
to  warm  him  alone;  and  the  moon  rises  to  give  him  an 
opportunity  to  sniffle  his  sentimentalisms  into  the  fond 
ears  of  a  beautiful  woman!  Strange  mixture  of  lust, 
greed,  cruelty,  vice,  treachery,  egotism,  and  sentimental 
tenderness !  And  women  are  his  foreordained  victims. 


DAWN  255 

To  them,  he  pours  out  his  sorrows,  his  melancholy ;  the 
cold  world  does  not  understand  him,  and  the  woman 
alas!  thinks  that  she  does,  and  wastes  her  heart's  treas- 
ure in  this  bottomless  pit.  The  barbarian,  the  degener- 
ate, are  the  pests  of  our  civilization;  but  we  have  as 
yet  found  no  way  of  eliminating  them.  There  is  only 
one  example  in  history  of  a  nation  that  tried  to  do  it 
systematically,  and  that  nation  lives,  now,  only  on  the 
pages  of  Plutarch. 

Of  the  two,  the  degenerate  is  the  more  dangerous 
by  far,  because  he  passes  for  what  he  isn't ;  and  has  the 
art  of  perfuming  his  filth  with  Cologne  water. 

Now,  I  had  no  intention  of  trying  to  educate  either 
a  barbarian  or  a  degenerate.  I  meant  to  choose  the 
best  of  the  material  at  hand  and  do  what  I  could  with 
it.  I  had  a  hundred  and  fifty  acres  of  woodland  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  town  and  daily  increasing  in  value 
with  the  growth  of  it.  I  resolved  to  divide  it  into 
twenty  lots  of  five  acres,  each  properly  laid  out  so  as 
to  be  accessible,  and  to  give  it  to  twenty  young  people 
from  sixteen  to  eighteen  years  of  age,  on  condition  that 
they  should  clear  it  off  and  cultivate  it.  The  timber  cut, 
would  more  than  amply  pay  them  for  the  first  year's 
labor  of  clearing  the  ground;  after  which,  each  might 
cultivate  his  own  five  acres,  as  it  seemed  best  to  him. 
After  five  years'  work  on  it,  they  would  earn  a  clear 
title  to  it  and  would  receive  it  from  me.  But,  if  at  any 
time,  they  relaxed  their  zeal,  the  land  was  to  be  aban- 
doned, and  I  had  the  right  to  bestow  it  on  somebody 
else.  I  required  also  a  systematic  and  thorough  study 
of  agriculture,  including  botany,  the  nature  of  plants, 
and  the  constituents  of  the  soil. 

I  did  this  from  the  belief  that  though  nature  has  no 
interest  in  the  man  of  intelligence,  civilization  is  the 
product  of  intelligence  and  is  maintained  by  it;  and  so 
far  as  it  is  possible,  labor  should  always  be  united  to 
intelligence  to  secure  its  best  results. 


CHAPTER   X 

AMONG  THE  SCHOOL-MASTERS 

I  BEGAN  now,  daily,  to  look  for  my  boys.  I  demanded 
a  healthy  body,  an  open  intelligence  and  a  disposition 
to  do  right;  in  short,  a  good  soil  in  which  to  sow  my 
seed.  And  here,  I  wish  to  render  a  tardy  justice  to  my 
father.  I  believe  that  his  ideas  were  right  in  wishing 
my  education  to  be  practical,  rather  than  ornamental. 
To  introduce  a  new  need  where  there  is  contentment, 
does  not  always  mean  the  introduction  of  an  element 
of  growth.  In  a  stupid  mind,  it  may  mean  to  pave  the 
first  step  to  folly  or  to  crime. 

I  was  confirmed  in  this  idea  by  a  systematic  study 
of  the  educational  system  of  the  United  States;  and  in 
long  conversations  with  some  of  the  best  school-masters 
of  the  country,  I  have  come  to  the  following  con- 
clusions : 

That  the  system  is  an  ideal  one,  and  that  that  is  the 
root  and  branch  of  its  weakness.  The  ideal  is  the  im- 
practicable, that  which  is  never  attained,  but  which 
serves  as  an  aspiration,  a  direction  in  which  we  walk. 
What  is  needed,  is  a  real  educational  system :  one  which 
recognizes  limitations,  one  which  recognizes  distinctions, 
and  is  not  based  upon  a  false  and  vicious  presumption  of 
equality  among  minds.  The  total  absence  of  any  such 
recognition  was  the  first  thing  that  struck  me  in  look- 
ing over  the  High  School  curriculum  of  the  free  public 
schools.  It  was  a  complete  bill  of  fare  of  all  possible 
forms  of  instruction — art,  science,  literature,  languages, 
ancient  and  modern,  music,  elocution,  mathematics,  phi- 
losophy, even  including  that  most  speculative  of  all 
studies,  psychology,  which,  at  the  very  least,  requires 

256 


AMONG   THE   SCHOOL-MASTERS        257 

half  a  lifetime  of  reflection  and  observation  before  one 
can  be  sure  of  a  single  principle  in  it, — in  short,  the 
whole  vast  domain  of  human  knowledge  and  research 
was  set  before  boys  and  girls  ranging  from  twelve  to 
nineteen  years  of  age! 

I  looked  at  it  in  amazement. 

"This  is  what  you  do  for  your  picked  minds;  what 
provision  do  you  make  for  the  mediocre,  who,  like  the 
poor,  are  always  with  us  ?  "  I  asked  the  principal  of  a 
flourishing  city  High  School.  He  did  not  quite  under- 
stand me,  so  I  continued: 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  every  pupil  who  enters 
your  High  School,  and  completes  its  four  years'  course, 
is  expected  to  be  proficient  in  the  greater  number  of 
these  subjects?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  certainly.  That  is  what  his  diploma 
means." 

"  Then  you  have  some  rigid  method  of  sifting  minds, 
by  which  you  give  this  varied  and  exceptional  training 
to  the  few,  who  can  really  profit  by  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  They  come  up  from  the  ward  schools, 
where  they  have  spent  from  seven  to  eight  years  in 
preparatory  work.  Of  course,  a  system  of  natural  sift- 
ing goes  on  there.  The  very  weak  drop  out,  and  we  get 
the  stronger  ones.  Our  enrollment  this  year  is  1750." 

"  Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty !  Do  you  mean  to  say 
that  you  have  found  1750  boys  and  girls,  who  can  take 
the  training  of  an  intellectual  athlete,  a  savant,  and  come 
out  strong  under  it?  What  time  have  they  for  recre- 
ation ?  What  time  have  they  even  for  proper  study  ?  " 

He  smiled  rather  uncomfortably,  and  said : 

"  The  recreation  problem,  to  be  frank  with  you,  solves 
itself  more  easily  than  the  other.  The  American  boy 
or  girl  is  not  subjected  to  the  same  rigid  home  discipline 
as  the  European  child.  He  is  self-assertive  from  the 
cradle.  It  is  the  parent  who  does  the  submitting,  not 
the  child.  He  says,  '  Mother,  I  am  going  out  to-night/ 
if  he  is  considerate  enough  to  mention  the  fact  at  all; 


1258      THE  JOURNAL;  OF  A  RECLUSE 

instead  of,  *  Mother,  may  I  go  out  to-night  ? '  The  re- 
sult is  that  he  goes  out  a  great  deal  too  much.  He 
begins  his  social  life,  sometimes,  before  he  gets  into  his 
knee-trousers.  He  has  his  parties,  his  picnics,  his  girl, 
even,  if  you  please;  the  girl  you  see  has  as  much  free- 
dom here  as  the  boy,  and  the  parks  and  theaters  offer 
their  temptations,  so  that,  on  the  whole  " — he  hesitated, 
scratched  his  head,  and  raised  his  eyebrows,  and  I  fin- 
ished his  sentence  for  him. 

"You  have  a  surplus  of  recreation." 

"  Yes,  so,  you  see,  it  becomes  a  question  of  regulat- 
ing it,  rather  than  providing  for  it.  And  we  do  that," 
he  added  cheerfully.  "  We  recognize  that  the  young 
need  pleasure,  need  youthful  companionship,  need  sun- 
shine just  like  the  plants;  and  we  give  them  plenty  of 
it.  We  don't  draw  the  reins  tight  on  these  restive  young 
colts — perhaps  not  tight  enough.  We  let  them  form 
literary  societies,  scientific,  art,  or  debating  clubs ;  we 
give  them  opportunities  to  show  what  they  can  do  by 
dramatic  entertainments  before  the  public." 

"  What ! "  I  interrupted,  "  you  run  a  sort  of  private 
theater  in  connection  with  your  schools?  You  complain 
of  a  surplus  of  recreation,  and  you  deliberately  add  to 
your  surplus,  instead  of  trying  to  reduce  it?  or  is  it 
the  homeopathic  theory  set  to  education,  that  like  cures 
like?" 

"  No,  no,  you  don't  understand  me  at  all.  I  said 
we  regulated  the  amusements  of  the  young.  We  try  to 
substitute  for  the  aimless,  gossiping,  social  waste  of  time 
a  legitimate  intellectual  form  of  amusement.  Play  is 
the  normal  pastime  of  the  young.  The  acceptance  of 
that  fact  by  modern  educators  was  a  revolution  in  edu- 
cation. It  set  aside  force,  rigidity,  harshness  and  sub- 
stituted inclination  for  them.  It  banished  the  rod." 

"  And  substituted  barley-sugar.  Yes,  I  understand 
you,  now.  You  put  a  pill  into  the  child's  candy,  and 
you  never  leave  off  feeding  him  candy." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 


AMONG  THE   SCHOOL-MASTERS       259 

"Just  what  I  said.  You  Americans  have  made  a 
hobby  horse  of  the  kindergarten  method,  and  it  follows 
the  child  into  his  youth  and  into  the  High  School,  where 
it  would  seem  time  to  put  off  the  infant's  swaddling 
clothes.  You  '  mother '  the  boy  after  he  is  weaned,  and 
needs  '  fathering,'  so  it  seems  to  me.  But  the  proof  of 
the  pudding  is  in  the  eating.  I  shan't  condemn  the  sys- 
tem till  I  know  the  results.  In  my  time,  we  thought  play 
one  thing,  and  work  another.  We  said  '  all  work  and 
no  play  makes  Jack  a  dull  boy ' ;  but  we  never  thought 
of  mixing  them.  We  thought  change  an  element  of 
zest,  and  went  with  more  alacrity -.from  work  to  play, 
and  play  to  work.  '  Mais  nous  avons  change  tout  cela! 
You  have  athletic  clubs,  too,  I  see;  out-door  games." 

"  Oh,  certainly.  It's  in  the  air.  You  breathe  it.  You 
can't  get  rid  of  it.  It's  all  very  well  to  talk  about  ideal 
situations;  but  you  have  conditions  to  deal  with,  facts 
you  can't  get  rid  of.  You  must  yield  to  them,  or  rather 
compromise." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  see,  the  United  States  school  system, 
then,  is  like  the  parent:  it  does  not  guide  the  young;  it 
submits  to  them.  I  have  been  told  that  when  the  negroes 
were  first  emancipated,  they  all  wanted  to  learn  Latin 
and  Greek.  To  them,  it  was  the  mysterious  sesame, 
the  open  door  into  all  the  luxuries  of  wealth  and  leisure. 
Your  young  country  has  looked  at  education  in  the  same 
way,  and  not  as  a  stern  discipline,  an  emancipation  of 
the  mind  by  a  long,  thorough  course  of  fixed,  persistent, 
painful  labor.  Your  boys  and  girls  talk  about  going  to 
college  as  they  talk  about  going  to  the  races.  It's  a 
rollicking  good  time  they  are.  after,  first — and  an  educa- 
tion, incidentally.  Now,  it  doesn't  seem  to  me  worth 
while  to  expend  the  immense  sums  of  money  which  you 
spend  on  education,  just  to  give  multitudes  of  idle  young 
people  a  good  time.  Not  long  ago,  I  saw  some  books 
advertised,  and  all  the  stress  was  laid  on  the  elegant 
binding  and  the  high  quality  of  the  paper.  Nothing  was 
said  about  the  contents.  The  books  were  evidently 


260        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

intended  to  make  a  brave  show  on  some  unused  library 
shelves.  I  have  been  looking  over  catalogues  of  various 
private  and  public  seminaries,  and  I  noticed  here  that 
all  the  stress  was  laid  on  the  electric  lights,  and  modern 
improvements — the  vast  grounds,  the  facilities  for  boat- 
ing and  out-door  games.  Not  a  line  about  the  efficiency 
of  the  teachers,  the  thoroughness  of  the  instruction. 
Material  comforts  and  pleasures  were  the  drawing-cards. 
I  look  over  this  ambitious  curriculum  of  yours,  and  it 
seems  to  me  like  an  immense  dinner-table,  furnished 
with  meats  and  fruits  and  dainties  from  all  the  climes 
and  countries  of  the  world.  And  everybody  is  invited 
to  sit  down  to  it;  the  dyspeptic,  the  weak,  the  diseased, 
the  fastidious,  have  just  as  much  room  there  as  the 
strong.  And  they  are  asked  to  eat  of  everything.  A 
Gargantua  alone  would  be  at  home  there.  But  where 
are  the  Gargantuas  with  an  ideal  digestive  apparatus? 
What  are  the  results  of  this  culinary  orgy?  The  dys- 
peptics and  the  sick  are  only  made  more  dyspeptic  and 
weaker  from  indigestion,  and  the  strong  rise  gorged 
and  dulled.  What  should  you  do?  You  should  put 
before  your  guests  the  simple,  wholesome  food  that 
they  can  digest.  It  is  not  the  quantity  eaten,  but  the 
quantity  digested,  that  strengthens  the  body,  and  the 
same  fact  holds  true  with  regard  to  intellectual  food." 

"  That's  all  well  enough,  sir,  but  the  American 
people  know  what  they  want,  and  they  are  willing  to 
pay  for  it,  too.  They've  a  perfect  right  to  do  as  they 
please." 

"Oh,  certainly,  nobody  contests  that  right,  only  let's 
not  call  a  superficial  smattering,  a  peck  here  and  there 
at  a  bushel  of  educational  plums — an  education.  I 
have  seen  graduating  essays  on  the  loftiest  themes  com- 
piled from  encyclopedias,  and  every  unusual  word  and  a 
great  many  ordinary  ones,  were  misspelled  in  it.  The 
writer  hadn't  even  learned  to  use  his  eyes  correctly,  and 
see  properly,  what  was  set  before  him.  I  have  seen 
pupils  in  higher  mathematics  boggle  at  the  multiplication 


AMONG   THE   SCHOOL-MASTERS       261 

table,  and  pupils  who  had  '  finished '  geography  locate 
Egypt  in  India.  It  is  this  sort  of  '  finish  '  that  I  am  ob- 
jecting to.  It  isn't  courtesy  to  say  all  this;  but  I  have 
a  definite  object  in  view.  I  wish  to  profit  by  your  weak- 
ness as  well  as  your  strength.  There  is  strength  in  your 
system.  I  don't  deny  it.  It  is  so  palpable  that  it  does 
not  need  dwelling  upon.  It  is  a  glorious  thing  that  not 
a  young  soul  in  your  country  need  lose  his  social  birth- 
right to  a  good  education,  if  he  wants  it.  It  is  a  mag- 
nificent thing,  that  among  all  the  common  pebbles  on 
which  you  have  given  yourselves  the  ungrateful  and  use- 
less task  of  putting  a  high  polish,  there  may  be  here 
and  there  an  agate,  or  even  a  diamond  that  need  not 
pass  without  luster,  unrecognized  through  life.  But  it 
is  the  enormous  waste  that  troubles  my  Scotch  thrift. 
Josiah  Wedgwood  used  to  go  through  his  pottery,  and 
with  that  quick,  vigilant,  beauty-loving  eye  of  his,  he 
would  single  out  every  bit  of  bad  work  and  smash  it 
with  his  stick.  It  had  no  right  to  exist  and  pass  itself 
off  for  perfect.  Walter  Scott,  in  his  private  journal, 
once  wrote: 

" '  To  give  education  to  dull  mediocrity  is  a  flinging 
of  the  children's  bread  to  dogs ;  it  is  sharpening  a  hatchet 
on  a  razor  strop,  which  renders  the  strop  useless,  and 
does  no  good  to  the  hatchet/ 

"  You  waste  millions  and  millions  of  dollars  annually 
sharpening  hatchets  on  razor  strops.  Instead  of  smash- 
ing your  bad  work,  and  refusing  to  send  it  out  as  per- 
fect, you  tie  a  blue  ribbon  on  it,  and  label  it  with  a 
diploma.  It  is  a  shame !  That  is  why  the  United  States 
presents  the  singular  paradox  of  spending  more  time  and 
money  on  education  than  any  other  country  in  the  world, 
and  yet  holds  the  real  scholar  in  the  least  esteem.  His 
place  in  your  country  is  purely  factitious;  he  fits  in 
nowhere,  for  nobody  really  wants  his  scholarship,  or 
appreciates  and  enjoys  it.  Your  system  of  smattering 
destroys  the  respect  which  pure  ignorance  has  for  what 
it  does  not  at  all  comprehend,  Your  dull  boy  studies 


physics :  and  because  he  sees  his  teacher  perform  a  few 
experiments,  thinks  he  knows  all  about  it,  and  as  what 
he  really  does  know  amounts  to  nothing,  he  rates  every- 
body else's  knowledge  of  the  subject  by  the  light,  or 
rather  the  darkness,  of  his  own  personal  experience  and 
he  despises  it. 

"  You  force  your  best  specimens  of  literature  into  the 
hands  of  ignorance  and  immaturity  and  because  no 
thrill  of  the  consciousness  of  higher  power  is  possible 
to  them,  they  think  your  great  writers  asses  and  dull- 
ards. 

"  I  visited  a  class  the  other  day,  where  a  boy,  forced  to 
give  his  opinion  of  Emerson,  deliberately  called  him  a 
fool.  Of  course,  he  was  a  fool  to  the  boy's  dense  folly. 
In  another  class,  a  girl  refused  to  grant  any  superiority 
to  Franklin,  because  he  had  broken  his  engagement 
with  a  young  woman  to  whom  he  had  grown  indifferent. 
No  man  could  possibly  be  great  who  would  do  such  a 
mean  thing  as  that,  said  little  Miss  with  a  toss  of  her 
silly  head.  Now,  why  was  it  necessary  to  disclose  this 
interesting  bit  of  biography  to  a  girl,  who  had  not  suffi- 
cient experience  in  life  to  judge  properly? 

"  But  I  find  that  it  is  a  pet  theory  of  your  educational 
system  to  require  every  boy  and  girl  to  have  an  opinion, 
or  to  make  one  on  the  spot,  if  he  hasn't  one.  Your 
English  teaching  is  all  based  on  that,  and  your  pupils 
are  graded  on  glibness.  It  is  good  training  for  an 
auctioneer;  but  I  emphatically  deny  that  it  makes  for 
culture.  What  opinion,  original  and  true,  coming  from 
deep  inner  experience,  can  any  ordinary  child  in  his 
'teens  have?  Criticism  means  life.  Live,  feel,  suffer, 
that's  the  tax  you  must  pay  for  the  right  to  utter  a  lit- 
erary criticism,  or  an  ethical  opinion  worth  having." 

I  was  getting  heated,  and  felt  it  time  to  stop,  so  ex- 
cusing myself  with  an  apology  for  my  warmth,  I  bowed 
myself  out  of  the  principal's  office,  quite  conscious  that 
I  was  leaving  him  angered,  and  more  confident  than 
ever  in  the  right  of  the  American  citizen  to  do  as  he 


AMONG   THE   SCHOOL-MASTERS        263 

pleased.     I  find  that  when  all  other  arguments  fail,  this 
one  settles  the  matter  conclusively. 

From  a  consideration  of  the  educational  system  itself, 
I  turned  my  attention  to  the  teachers.  I  visited  the  so- 
called  institutes  or  periodical  meetings  of  teachers  for 
the  purpose  of  discussing  their  work.  Here  I  was  aston- 
ished to  find  that  the  great  majority  of  them  were 
women,  and  that  of  these  women,  most  of  them  were 
young,  having  taken  up  teaching  not  as  a  profession, 
but  as  a  temporary  method  of  earning  a  respectable 
living,  prior  to  settling  down  in  their  own  households. 
A  bright,  vivacious  spectacle  they  made,  but  as  for  any 
serious  attention  they  were  giving  to  what  was  going 
on  on  the  platform,  they  might  as  well  have  been  at  a 
circus.  Indeed,  they  conducted  themselves  very  much 
as  if  they  were;  whispering,  laughing,  eating  peanuts, 
or  chewing  gum  with  no  effort  at  all  at  concealment,  and 
were  several  times  called  to  order  by  the  venerable 
chairman.  I  was  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  seated  behind 
an  elderly  woman  with  a  harsh,  steel-like  voice,  who  ac- 
companied all  the  discussions  from  the  platform  with  a 
running  aside  of  bitter  sarcasms,  which,  at  last,  annoyed 
me  so  much  that  I  had  to  retire  to  a  remote  and  de- 
serted corner  of  the  gallery  in  order  to  hear  anything 
in  peace.  I  was  interested  in  what  was  said,  if  she 
wasn't,  and  thought  that  if  she  did  not  like  it,  there  was 
no  necessity  of  obtruding  her  misplaced  wit  on  a  public 
audience;  and  that  she  might  have  adopted  the  quieter 
method  of  some  of  her  colleagues,  who  were  undis- 
guisedly  reading  newspapers  or  books.  This  was  an- 
other striking  example  of  the  American  way  of  doing 
what  one  pleases,  but  it  made  a  very  disagreeable  and 
painful  impression  on  me.  My  heart  went  out  to  the 
gray-haired  educator  whose  task  it  was  to  impress  these 
frivolous  young  women  with  the  importance  of  their 
(daily  duties,  but  who  were  rebellious,  uninterested,  feel- 
ing themselves  inconvenienced  in  their  Saturday's  shop- 
ping by  a  forced  attendance  at  an  educational  meeting. 


264        THE  JOURNAL1  OF  'A  RECLUSE 

My  Heart  went  out  to  the  multitudes  of  boys  wlio  were 
to  be  trained  into  virility  under  such  petticoat  govern- 
ment, and  to  the  multitudes  of  young  girls  who  ought 
to  be  trained  to  the  serene  dignity  of  perfect  woman- 
hood. 

However,  their  conduct  explained  another  anomaly 
in  public  school  education  here,  namely,  a  total  indiffer- 
ence to  manners  or  personal  bearing.  Boys  are  allowed 
to  lounge  through  the  halls  from  class  to  class,  their 
hands  in  their  pockets,  their  books  huddled  under  their 
arm-pits.  They  loll  and  lean  over  their  desks  in  recita- 
tion— as  do  the  girls.  They  chew  gum  incessantly,  not 
even  taking  the  trouble  to  remove  it  to  answer  a  ques- 
tion. They  reply  with  an  Uh-huh  for  yes,  and  are  not 
reproved  for  it.  They  wear  rings  on  their  fingers,  and 
dirt  under  their  finger  nails.  They  push  and  rush  and 
scramble  to  recitations,  loudly  laughing  and  talking, 
walk  sometimes  arm  in  arm,  three  or  four  abreast;  in 
short,  do  as  they  please. 

The  girls  over-dress  in  a  painfully  unbecoming  way, 
looking  often  as  if  they  were  ready  for  a  ball,  instead  of 
the  school-room;  and  a  great  many  use  paint  and  pow- 
der, and  provide  themselves  with  mirrors  at  which  they 
adjust  their  hair  and  give  another  powder-rag  wipe  to 
their  faces  between  recitations. 

When  I  spoke  of  this  to  teachers,  some  of  them  de- 
plored it,  and  excused  it,  on  the  ground  that  parents 
resented  their  interference  with  regard  to  personal  mat- 
ters ;  and  they  were  forced  to  accept  what  they  could  not 
mend.  Sometimes  I  found  a  teacher  so  rightly  con- 
scious of  her  duty  that  she  had  courage  to  face  unpopu- 
larity or  the  resentment  of  parents,  and  frankly  tried 
to  introduce  a  little  order  into  this  moral  chaos;  and 
whenever  I  met  a  teacher  like  that,  I  took  off  my  hat 
to  her. 

It  seems  to  me  that  the  dominant  fear  of  the  teacher 
in  the  United  States  is  the  fear  of  unpopularity,  and 
that  efficiency  in  teaching  suffers  sadly  from  it.  It  is 


AMONG  THE  SCHOOL-MASTERS       265 

this  fear  that  pushes  large  numbers  of  wholly  incompe- 
tent dullards  from  grade  to  grade,  and  diploma  to 
diploma,  until  the  day  is  coming,  if  not  here  now,  when 
the  word  "  diploma "  will  be  as  meaningless  as  the 
words  "  colonel  "  and  "  professor."  It  encourages  the 
premature  and  unrestrained  social  intercourse  of  the 
young  of  both  sexes,  and  all  the  weakness  and  follies 
that  result  from  it  in  elopements  and  divorces.  I  heard 
a  principal  announce  to  his  pupils  from  the  platform  a 
ball  game  to  come  off  the  next  day,  and  add  that  every 
young  man  in  the  hall  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself, 
if  he  did  not  take  a  girl  with  him.  More  tickets  must 
be  sold.  The  team  needed  support.  Did  moral  order 
need  no  support?  No;  it  did  not  pay  visible  cash  re- 
turns. It  is  this  fact  that  crushes  out  all  freedom  of 
utterance:  makes  fruitless  all  freedom  of  thought.  In 
the  universities  of  Germany,  a  Haeckel  may  advance 
the  boldest  speculations  of  modern  thought,  and  hold 
his  chair  as  securely  as  the  most  conservative  theo- 
logian. Not  so  in  the  land  of  freedom.  He  must  do 
his  thinking  and  talking  in  chorus.  No  solos  allowed. 
Hence  it  is  quite  comprehensible  that  all  free  upward 
intellectual  growth  ceases  when  the  censor's  pruning 
knife  ruthlessly  and  indiscriminately  lops  off  the  top 
branches. 

There  is,  however,  a  stirring  undercurrent  of  dis- 
content among  the  most  conscientious  and  thoughtful 
of  older  teachers,  who  have  lived  to  see  the  fallacy  of 
popular  education  as  a  universal  panacea  for  social 
disorders,  and  a  better  day  may  come,  if  the  discontent 
finds  free  expression. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  teaching  Latin  ?  "  I  asked 
of  one  veteran  school-master. 

"  Thirty-one  years,"  he  replied. 

"  And  in  that  time,  how  many  pupils  have  you 
taught?" 

"  I  can't  exactly  say,  but  some  thousands,  at  any 
rate." 


266        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

"And  of  these  thousands,  how  many,  at  the  end  of 
their  four  years'  course,  were  able  to  read  with  ease, 
profit,  or  pleasure  the  Latin  classics  ?  " 

"  I  can't  affirm,  without  doubt,  that  there  were  ten 
of  them." 

"  Then  you  have  passed  your  thirty-one  years  at  the 
task  of  the  daughters  of  Danaus,  filling  sieves  with 
water?" 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  I  have." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  why  you  did  not  succeed  ?  " 

"  In  carrying  water  in  a  sieve  ?  " 

"  Pardon  me,  the  question  was  stupid.  Then  that 
means  that  an  intelligence,  curious,  active,  and  reten- 
tive, is  very  rare?" 

"  Yes,  very,  very  rare,  especially  one  that  is  capable  of 
impersonal  interests.  The  ordinary  mind  is  interested 
in  itself,  and  in  the  little  circle  of  facts  around  it.  It 
is  only  by  vanity,  that  it  is  induced  to  extend  its  circle. 
A  man  doesn't  like  another  to  out-do  him  in  anything; 
therefore,  he  feigns  an  interest,  of  which  he  is  not 
capable.  Vanity  keeps  him  at  it,  when  he  is  tired  of  it ; 
but  that  support  withdrawn,  he  goes  no  farther.  Ask  of 
any  first  year  Latin  pupil  why  he  is  studying  it,  and  ten 
to  one  he  will  tell  you  either  that  he  expects  to  go  to 
college;  or  that  he  has  heard  a  good  deal  about  it;  or 
that  he  expects  to  study  a  modern  language,  and  he  has 
heard  that  Latin  helps.  But  you  see  that  Latin  is  not 
an  end  in  itself,  but  a  means  to  an  end.  His  feeble  curi- 
osity satisfied,  or  his  college  exams,  passed,  he  drops  it; 
and  what  he  has  learned  quickly  fades  from  his  mind. 
When  a  boy  tells  me  that  he  is  studying  Latin  to  facili- 
tate his  mastery  of  a  modern  tongue,  I  tell  him  that  he 
is  acting  exactly  as  a  boy  who  would  buy  a  pair  of 
roller-skates,  because  he  wanted  to  learn  how  to  swim. 
Let  the  skates  alone,  and  save  time  by  plunging  into  the 
water  at  once.  Strange!  how  these  stereotyped  ideas 
pass  on  from  one  generation  to  another,  isn't  it?  When 
Latin  was  the  only  medium  for  written  thought,  there 


AMONG  THE   SCHOOL-MASTERS        267 

was  a  reason  for  studying  it,  but  why  an  ordinary  in- 
telligence should  lose  so  much  time  now  from  what  it 
can  do,  to  waste  it  on  what  it  can  not  do,  is  one  of  those 
impenetrable  mysteries  of  human  stupidity  that  ought 
to  cease  astonishing  us,  because  they  are  so  common." 

I  smiled  and  said :  "  Your  reasoning  about  Latin,  as 
a  means  to  an  end,  seems  to  me  to  apply  very  well  also 
to  the  higher  mathematics.  One  hears  so  much  about 
their  value  as  an  excellent  mental  discipline.  Now, 
what  do  you  think  about  it  ?  " 

"  What  do  I  think  about  it?"  he  repeated.  "  I  think 
that  the  study  of  mathematics  can  teach  you  to  reason 
about  problems,  but  it  does  not  follow  from  that,  that 
you  are  able  to  reason  about  things  with  no  figures  in 
them; — the  great  problems  of  life — how  to  escape  from 
a  difficulty,  how  to  recover  your  independence,  when 
under  the  domination  of  a  tyrannical  passion.  We  hear, 
too,  a  very  great  deal  of  nonsense  about  the  require- 
ments of  literary  culture.  But  do  the  lives  of  literary 
men  give  us  brilliant  examples  of  temperance,  chastity, 
prudence?  On  the  contrary,  they  furnish  the  saddest 
history  of  human  weaknesses  and  corruption  that  we 
have  on  record.  And  as  for  the  intellectual  value  of 
mathematics  and  literature,  would  it  not  be  proper  to 
infer  that  those  men  who  make  of  these  studies  their 
life-work  in  teaching  them  to  others,  would  be  national 
models  of  wisdom?  But  is  that  so?  Is  the  school- 
master the  influential  man  ?  the  builders  of  our  railways  ? 
the  founders  of  our  commerce?  Have  they  built  our 
towns,  furrowed  the  seas,  written  the  books  that  have 
cheered  the  hearts  of  men  from  generation  to  genera- 
tion? Aren't  they,  on  the  contrary,  the  helpless  victims 
of  the  solidest,  most  exacting  education  there  is — the 
education  of  practical  life?  Don't  the  real  estate  agents 
seek  them  out  first  of  all  to  sell  them  the  little  lots 
remote  from  town,  which  in  a  short  time  are  to  be  of 
enormous  value  and  which  they  are  receiving  at  specially 
favored  rates,  because  they  are  they.  If  there  are  any 


268        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A  RECLUSE 

coffee  plantations  in  the  Orient,  or  down  in  old  Mexico, 
selling  off  at  immense  bargains,  aren't  the  school-teach- 
ers the  first  to  be  notified?  Aren't  the  gold  mines  and 
the  permanently  flowing  oil  wells  especially  created  for 
them,  too?  I  speak  knowingly;  I  have  several  hundred 
dollars,  I  can  ill  afford  to  lose,  floating  gayly  in  oil,  but 
never  floating  back  to  me.  And  look  through  all  the 
centuries  at  the  school-master  in  literature.  At  best, 
he  is  a  mild  innocent  with  a  bulging  forehead;  or  a 
great  ass,  tumefied  with  pedantry.  No,  they  say  it  is  a 
dirty  bird  that  fouls  its  own  nest;  but  I  have  always 
thought  that  if  there  had  been  much  of  a  man  in  me, 
I  would  have  given  over  my  task  to  the  petticoats,  and 
gone  out  into  the  world,  and  worked  among  men.  The 
real,  the  only  education  that  any  man  gets  is  that  which 
he  gives  to  himself.  All  that  we  school-masters  can  do, 
is  to  point  out  the  road,  walk  in  it  ourselves,  and  give 
others  the  courage  to  follow  us.  We  can't  furnish  them 
with  carriages,  or  bear  them  on  our  shoulders. 

"  But  I  shouldn't  like  to  leave  the  question  of  classical 
studies  without  saying  what  they  have  done  for  me, 
and  what  I  have  tried  to  make  them  do  for  my  pupils. 
I  am  no  cut  and  dried  philologist.  I  care  nothing  for 
the  word  without  the  thought  behind  it,  any  more  than 
I  care  for  the  dress  without  the  person  in  it,  and  I  have 
studied  the  ancients  to  know  what  they  thought,  and  not 
to  find  in  their  language  the  roots  of  other  tongues. 
Therefore,  classic  literature  has  given  me  a  standard  of 
values  which  I  prize  above  everything  else.  The  ancients 
have  taught  me  what  are  the  essentials  of  life.  When 
I  read  them  I  am  ashamed  of  the  noisy  boasts  of  our 
age,  and  I  feel  that  we  have  little  or  nothing  to  teach 
them  of  permanent  value  in  life.  We  have  enormously 
increased  luxuries  and  complications  in  life — we  ride 
faster,  we  eat  more  things,  we  travel  farther,  we  have 
substituted  another  mythology  for  theirs,  but  when  you 
have  said  that,  you  have  said  about  all;  and  in  return, 
they  can  show  us  an  immense  superiority  in  personal 


AMONG   THE   SCHOOL-MASTERS        269 

courage  and  endurance,  and  probity  in  general.  There 
were  no  cushions  between  them  and  the  earth;  they 
sat  harder  it  may  be,  but  they  walked  better.  With  them, 
a  progressive  nation  was  one  that  carried  its  arts  and 
sciences  into  other  lands.  They  did  it  by  force  of  arms, 
I  grant  it;  but  where  they  conquered,  they  civilized. 
With  us,  a  progressive  nation  is  one  in  which  milliners 
wear  diamonds,  and  servants  silk  dresses ;  and  the  daily 
laborer  may  live  with  his  family  in  the  kitchen  and  the 
attic  of  a  mansion  with  a  brown-stone,  or  marble  front, 
by  renting  out  all  the  habitable  rooms ;  where  the  wash- 
woman may  own  a  piano  that  nobody  in  the  family  can 
play  on ;  and  a  cook  can  demand  any  price  she  asks,  and 
then  regard  her  services  as  a  favor  which  she  renders 
you.  This  is  democracy ;  the  reign  of  the  average  man, 
who  erects  statues  to  Dumas,  loves  in  art  the  eccentric 
and  the  ugly,  so  long  as  they  are  novel  or  vicious,  and 
gives  his  eulogies  where  he  finds  his  material  com- 
forts." 

I  continued  my  search  for  information  among  the 
larger  colleges  and  universities.  Everywhere  I  received 
the  same  replies,  the  same  complaints,  uttered  with  more 
or  less  freedom.  A  great  many  deplored  the  effects  of 
co-education,  not  only  with  respect  to  the  increased 
facilities  for  the  distractions  of  social  life,  but  as  less- 
ening the  solidity  and  profundity  of  the  instruction.  I 
remember  that  a  professor  of  history,  in  particular,  told 
me  that  his  work  was  badly  crippled  by  the  necessity  he 
was  under  of  diluting  his  instruction,  to  make  it  palat- 
able to  his  women  students.  Great  social  problems  could 
not  be  probed  to  the  bottom  without  offending  their 
prejudices,  or  their  fastidiousness.  Almost  all  of  them 
deplored  the  facility  with  which  the  doors  of  colleges 
and  universities  are  swung  open  to  admit  the  incompe- 
tent. In  some  cases,  classes  were  deliberately  formed  to 
give  employment  to  professors. 

"  We  are  engaged  for  the  most  part,"  said  one  of  the 
men  to  me,  "  in  trying  to  put  a  sharp,  hard  edge  on  a 


270        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A  RECLUSE 

leaden  blade,  to  give  the  durable  lustre  of  gold  to  a  piece 
of  brass.  You  see  that  that  is  not  only  an  impossible, 
but  a  shamefully  silly  task.  I  come  from  my  work, 
sometimes,  cursing  myself.  I  had  been  sowing  good 
grain  on  sand.  I  had  been  giving  my  pearls  to  be 
trampled  under  foot  by  swine,  and  all  that  time  I  might 
have  been  doing  something  useful  for  humanity.  In- 
stead of  that,  I  had  wearied  myself  in  a  thankless  and 
fruitless  task.  I  feel  that  I  am  growing  more  and  more 
incapable  of  any  task  worthy  of  me.  But  what  can  I 
do?" 

"  What  can  you  do  ?  You  can  stop  wasting  your  time 
on  imbeciles.  For  what  you  are  doing  is  not  only  a 
waste,  but  it  is  treason  to  real  intelligence.  You  are  not 
'dispensing  light.  You  are  giving  a  false  lustre  to  igno- 
rance." 

"But  if  our  classes  diminish  in  size,  we  are  repri- 
manded by  our  superior  for  too  high  a  standard.  It's 
numbers,  not  standard  of  quality,  that  the  colleges  want. 
If  the  classes  grow  too  small,  we  lose  our  job,  and  yet 
we  must  live." 

I  had  not  the  cruelty  to  give  the  response  uttered 
once  before  to  the  same  plea :  "  I  don't  see  the  necessity," 
but  replied,, "  One  can  always  plant  potatoes." 

But  this  question  of  a  livelihood  is  the  hidden  rock 
against  which  so  many  good  reforms  are  in  danger  of 
being  wrecked.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  it  is  an  ex- 
pensive way  of  giving  them  a  livelihood,  and  that  in  the 
interests  of  solid  learning  and  culture,  both  professors 
and  students  should  be  ruthlessly  weeded  out,  if  they 
dre  not  serving  the  beautiful  purpose  for  which  they 
are  in  institutions  of  learning. 

The  multiplicity  of  books,  the  increasing  number  of 
public  libraries,  gives  to  everyone  the  chance  for  self- 
culture,  and  I  know  more  than  one  man  whose  educa- 
tion, due  to  nothing  but  his  own  unaided  exertions, 
would  put  to  the  blush  that  of  many  a  distinguished 
college  professor.  What  is  the  history  of  so  many  men 


AMONG   THE   SCHOOL-MASTERS        271 

of  genius  of  obscure  origin?  How  did  they  acquire 
their  knowledge?  Incited  by  a  veritable  hunger  for 
learning,  they  have  searched  the  truth  everywhere.  They 
have  been  indefatigable  readers;  incessant  thinkers 
and  observers.  Society  was  not  a  necessity  to  them ;  it 
was  rather  a  shackle.  "  My  leisure !  my  beautiful  lei- 
sure; do  not  break  in  upon  it,  and  steal  it  from  me," 
was  their  constant  wish,  unuttered  or  spoken.  What  is  it 
we  search  in  society?  Amusement,  flattery.  And  what 
is  the  greatest,  the  most  exquisitely  delightful  of  all  flat- 
teries? Love.  To  be  chosen  from  among  thousands, 
to  be  caressed,  to  be  adored !  What  is  more  delightful  ? 
How  many  eulogies  we  have  written  of  it,  how  many 
snares  we  have  laid  to  trap  youth,  and  persuade  it  that 
the  sum  of  human  felicity  is  to  be  found  in  it.  How  de- 
licious the  new  surprise  of  it,  each  time  that  it  steals 
into  the  heart,  anew ;  how  desolate  it  leaves  us  when  it 
fades  away.  How  useless  to  preach  that  it,  too,  is  a 
snare. 

"La  solitude  effraye  une  dme  de  vingt  ans." 
We  nearly  all  follow  the  same  path,  and  buy  our  wis- 
dom with  our  gray  hairs.  But  having  bought  it,  let 
us  not  keep  it  to  ourselves.  Let  us  give  it  to  the  young, 
by  teaching  them  those  old,  old  truths,  old  as  the  wisdom 
of  the  ancient  philosophers  and  the  ethics  of  Christ ;  and 
yet  young  as  the  lispings  of  infancy  to-day,  because 
immortal — the  truths  of  the  perishability  of  human 
works  and  human  ties ;  the  impossibility  of  their  ever 
wholly  satisfying  the  ceaseless  hunger  of  the  spirit; 
and  that  other  gray,  nun-like  truth  that  perfect  hap- 
piness is  never  found  except  in  renunciation,  that  not 
until  we  are  able  to  do  without  a  coveted  good,  are  we 
fit  to  possess  and  enjoy  it  fully. 

Hard  truths,  these,  to  teach  the  young,  and  not  to  be 
taught  by  iteration,  but  by  example  and  wise,  careful, 
practical  training.  You  cannot  teach  your  daughter  pre- 
cepts of  unworldliness  and  at  the  same  time  dress  her 
sumptuously,  and  make  her  feel  that  her  value  depends 


272        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

upon  the  richness  of  her  wardrobe.  She  will  take  your 
dresses  and  leave  you  the  precepts.  You  cannot  teach 
her  that  true  wealth  lies  not  in  the  abundance  of  things 
possessed,  but  in  the  open  humble  heart,  the  inquir- 
ing, studious  mind,  and  yet  gratify  her  every  desire  for 
material  pleasure,  fix  her  eyes  upon  the  shows  of  things 
and  not  on  realities. 

I  say  it  sadly,  but  with  confidence,  and  I  would  be 
willing  to  appeal  to  the  experience  of  every  teacher  in 
the  country,  in  support  of  the  statement,  that  the  great 
difficulty  which  teachers  have  to  meet,  in  the  training 
of  the  young,  is  that  they  are  not  given  to  them  with 
clean,  sound  minds,  eager  for  knowledge  and  already 
instinctively  turning  towards  it,  as  the  seedling  climbs 
up  towards  the  sun.  Their  work  in  the  school-room 
does  not  begin  with  doing,  but  with  MM-doing,  and  alas ! 
so  often  hopeless  un-doing;  for  these  boys  and  girls 
have  begun  life  at  the  wrong  end — begun  by  being  men 
and  women  instead  of  children — begun  by  loving  all 
the  artificial  excitements  that  stimulate  the  jaded  world- 
ling— and  yet  their  teachers  are  expected  to  give  them 
joy  in  the  calm  pleasures  of  the  intellect — to  make  them 
love  the  school-room,  instead  of  the  ball-room — the 
dewy  wild  flowers  of  the  meadow,  instead  of  the  lus- 
cious, heavy,  languorous,  perfumed  roses  of  the  conser- 
vatory— the  lives  of  heroes  on  printed  pages  more  than 
the  pageantry  of  mimic  life  in  the  theater.  It  can't  be 
done,  any  more  than  you  can  revive  a  taste  for  spring 
water  in  the  wine-drenched  mouth  of  an  epicure.  And 
yet,  until  you  can  do  this,  until  you  can  fill  the  hearts  and 
minds  of  our  young  men  and  women  with  a  contempt 
for  vain  show,  vain  pleasure-seeking,  selfish  and  cruel 
frivolity,  until  you  can  impart  to  them  an  eager  desire 
to  know  the  best  that  has  been  thought  and  said  in  the 
world,  awaken  in  them  that  sane  and  exquisite  delight 
irr  the  beauty  of  the  natural  world  which  is  the  essence 
of  true  refinement,  and  make  them  feel  that  health, 
moral  and  physical,  is  beautiful,  and  sin  and  disease  are 


AMONG   THE   SCHOOL-MASTERS        273 

hideous,  and  that  every  human  soul  has  its  own  peculiar 
responsibilities  and  duties,  which  it  is  base  and  cow- 
ardly to  shirk — until  you  can  do  all  this  your  fine 
schools  are  only  whited  sepulchres,  and  you  are  not 
training  the  men  and  women  demanded  by  modern  civi- 
lization. 


CHAPTER   XI 

AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  ALTRUISM 

THE  general  result  of  my  observations  and  study  of 
schools  was  to  confirm  me  in  my  determination  to  use 
my  material  for  what  it  was  worth,  and  not  put  an  arti- 
ficial value  upon  it.  I  had  one  immense  advantage  over 
the  salaried  school-master,  I  was  subjected  to  no  temp- 
tation to  cringe  to  authorities  or  to  fear  the  results  of 
unpopularity.  I  expected  neither  good  nor  evil  of  any- 
body ;  and  I  had  been  often  enough  disappointed  in  life, 
not  to  set  out  by  expecting  too  much. 

I  returned  home  about  the  middle  of  September.  The 
summer  heat  was  over,  but  a  great  many  beautiful  days 
were  in  store  for  us  before  winter  set  in.  I  made  regu- 
lar tours  of  inspection  about  town ;  but  found  only  ten 
boys  to  my  liking,  and  of  these,  three  abandoned  their 
work  at  the  end  of  three  months. 

I  had  resolved  to  build  a  laboratory  for  myself,  or 
rather  to  transform  the  room  which  Abby  had  occupied 
into  one.  I  am  ashamed  to  confess  that,  after  her  de- 
parture, I  had  never  re-entered  her  room.  But  I  opened 
it,  now,  almost  without  thinking  of  her ;  but  the  memory 
is  singularly  responsive  to  suggestions  and  associations, 
and  once  in  it,  again,  a  faint  sick  longing  seized  me  in- 
describably painful.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  opened 
a  tomb.  I  went  out  hastily,  but  felt  that  I  had  been  de- 
testably weak,  so  hurried  away  to  get  a  broom  and  a 
bucket  of  water.  I  opened  all  the  windows,  cleaned  the 
room,  and  forced  myself  to  whistle  as  I  did  it.  But  the 
whistle  might  have  been  a  funeral  march,  for  all  the 
gaiety  there  was  in  it,  and  once  or  twice  my  eyes  grew 
moist. 

I  called  in  the  carpenters  to  my  aid,  I  sent  away  for 

274 


AN   EXPERIMENT    IN   ALTRUISM       275 

my  supplies,  and,  by  the  end  of  November,  I  had  a  fine 
little  laboratory,  with  abundance  of  shelves  covered  with 
mysterious  bottles.  I  destined  my  winters  to  chemical 
studies,  in  which  I  determined  to  interest  my  boys,  if 
possible;  but  our  first  task  was  to  clear  off  the  land. 
They  commenced  with  a  fine  healthy  appetite  for  work. 
Their  new  axes,  the  novelty  of  their  task,  the  sweet  out- 
door air,  a  definite  aim  in  view,  had  much  to  do  with  it, 
no  doubt.  It  is  possible,  too,  that  my  presence,  as  their 
leader  and  director,  the  energy  with  which  I  worked 
alongside  of  them,  helped  to  keep  them  in  heart. 

I  chatted  freely  with  them  when  the  occasion  pre- 
sented itself;  I  praised  them  whenever  they  deserved  it; 
and  I  demanded  nothing  of  them,  that  they  could  not  do 
well,  by  exerting  themselves. 

In  our  hours  of  rest,  I  directed  their  attention  to  the 
wild  plants.  I  showed  them  the  regular  branching  of 
trees,  the  provision  which  nature  cautiously  makes  for 
next  year's  foliage,  the  nature  of  buds,  their  evolution 
and  transformation.  I  talked  of  the  nature  of  the  soil, 
the  manner  in  which  plants  are  nourished,  the  necessity 
of  knowing  what  mineral  foods  are  most  essential  to  the 
perfect  development  of  the  different  esculent  plants.  That 
naturally  led  to  their  interest  and  share  in  the  laboratory 
work.  Here,  I  was  pupil  as  well  as  master,  and  much 
the  most  ardent  and  curious  of  them  all.  I  had  always 
been  interested  in  the  exact  sciences  as  opposed  to 
those  which  are  speculative.  Of  all  the  impertinences 
and  follies  of  the  human  mind,  that  seems  to  me  the 
most  unpardonable  which  wastes  a  life-time  in  filling 
with  mere  speculations  the  abyss  of  our  ignorance.  But 
it  seems  to  be  an  ineradicable  defect  of  the  human  in- 
tellect. We  divide  and  classify  our  ignorance,  and  give 
names  to  its  divisions  as  we  do  to  the  imaginary  canals 
in  Mars ;  and  try  to  sanctify  it  by  blaspheming  the  name 
of  science,  in  calling  it  science. 

Henri  Beyle  says  wittily  of  the  Germans :  "  Saint  Ber- 
nard, preaching  to  the  Germans  in  a  language  of  which 


276        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

they  did  not  understand  a  word,  converted  them  by 
thousands.  In  our  days,  Kant  has  re-commenced  this 
miracle." 

All  these  searches  for  the  absolute  are  only  voyages 
in  a  very  narrow  circle,  of  which  we  are  the  center. 
There  is  not  one  inch  of  firm  foot-hold  outside  of  the 
worn  pathway  trodden  by  human  experience;  and  yet 
this  no-man's  land  of  the  vague  and  unknowable  has 
been  peopled  from  time  immemorial  by  dreamers  and 
charlatans,  and  the  starved  hearts  of  women,  and  will 
continue  to  be  so  peopled  while  men  and  women  dream 
and  hope  and  suffer.  And  there  will  also  be  a  few  sane 
minds  who  love  to  feel  the  solid  ground  under  their 
feet;  even  when  the  ground  is  rough  and  stony,  and 
must  pierce  the  foot  that  treads  it.  They  will  be  scorned 
by  the  vacuum  lovers;  branded  as  materialists,  as  if 
there  were  something  infinitely  shameful  in  believing 
that  flesh  and  blood  and  bones  are  flesh  and  blood  and 
bones,  and  the  good  brown  earth  is  good  brown  earth ; 
but  let  them  pay  no  heed  to  the  scorn,  knowing  well 
that  the  vacuists,  if  I  may  coin  a  word,  are  as  much  at- 
tracted to  matter  as  we  who  aren't  ashamed  of  it,  and 
live  in  it  quite  as  openly,  sometimes  even  a  little  more 
flauntingly. 

My  studies  confirmed  me  in  the  belief  that  what  we 
call  spirit  is  only  a  property  of  matter,  that  in  man  it 
shows  itself  as  intelligence,  in  mute  nature  as  motion; 
and  I  believe  the  time  will  come,  when  physicists  will 
include  motion  as  one  of  the  indispensable  properties 
of  matter.  That,  of  course,  a  property  of  anything  can- 
not exist  in  the  abstract  goes  without  saying.  Hence 
matter,  and  force,  spirit,  motion,  or  whatever  you  choose 
to  call  the  animating  quality,  are  indissolubly  bound 
together,  subject  to  unceasing  change  and  transforma- 
tions. 

To  see  for  myself,  and  to  show  to  these  young  souls, 
some  of  these  wonderful  transformations,  became,  now, 
for  many  years  the  occupation  of  my  life.  I  tried  to  in- 


AN   EXPERIMENT   IN   ALTRUISM       277 

spire  in  them  a  love  and  respect  for  this  mute,  pregnant 
matter  so  often  despised ;  to  show  it  living,  silently  grop- 
ing upward,  concealing  in  itself  miracles  of  beauty, 
ceaselessly  circulating  in  countless  forms,  immortal,  but 
protean. 

However,  I  was  not  long  in  discovering  that  among 
my  boys  there  were  very  few  capable  of  sustained  at- 
tention and  prolonged  study.  Here,  I  made  up  my  mind 
that  not  having  any  time  to  waste,  I  shouldn't  imitate 
the  public  schools,  and  try  to  sharpen  and  polish  my 
lead.  I  studied  my  boys  attentively,  unknown  to  them. 
I  put  them  to  the  test  in  all  sorts  of  ways;  and  when  I 
saw  a  mind  easily  distracted,  difficult  to  fix,  indifferent 
to  results,  careless  of  the  truth,  lax  in  principles  of 
honor,  eager  to  pass  for  more  than  he  was  worth,  vain 
boasting,  glib-tongued,  a  loiterer,  a  procrastinator,  I  did 
not  give  him  many  chances  to  yawn  in  my  face,  or  to 
take  up  the  room  of  one  more  worthy  than  he.  I  sent 
him  about  his  business,  which  was  not  mine,  and  thought 
myself  well  rid  of  him.  I  had  an  intense  desire  to  find 
a  boy  after  my  own  heart,  who  could  enter  into  my 
studies  with  ardent  zeal,  and  who  from  his  youth  could 
make  that  progress  in  them,  denied  to  me,  who  had  com- 
menced so  late  in  life.  I  had  the  great  good  fortune  to 
find  him  at  last,  and  counted  myself  the  happiest  of  men 
in  having  found  the  fertile  soil  into  which  I  could  cast 
my  grain,  and  hope  to  see  it  bear  fruit. 

He  was  the  eldest  son  of  a  brave  Scotch  widow  of 
remarkable  good  sense — a  woman  who  earned  a  frugal 
living  by  her  needle  for  herself  and  three  children. 

That  which  struck  me  most  in  Aleck  during  the  first 
weeks  of  our  association  was  his  ardent  love  of  truth. 
I  have  often  remarked,  since  then,  that  this  trait  of  per- 
fect truthfulness  is  the  distinguishing  characteristic  of 
a  first-class  mind.  It  is  true  that  there  is  an  age  in 
childhood  when  almost  every  child  is  a  liar ;  not  through 
natural  viciousness,  but  through  an  excess  of  imagina- 
tion, in  which  the  real  and  unreal  are  confused,  or 


278        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

through  fear,  or  through  vanity,  the  habit  of  lying  from 
the  last  sources,  being  most  difficult  to  overcome.  But 
this  impressionable,  imaginative  age  passed,  the  good 
mind  invariably  becomes  truthful,  feeling  shame  over  a 
lie,  as  the  contemptible  characteristic  of  cowardice. 
Then,  too,  the  majestic  beauty  of  truth  is  borne  in  upon 
him.  He  is,  as  it  were,  amorous  of  her,  and  he  cannot 
suffer  a  lie  to  take  her  place  in  his  warm  heart. 

This  love  of  truth  is  the  especial  gift  of  the  scientist, 
who  must  be  ready  to  abandon  his  most  cherished  be- 
liefs, as  soon  as  he  has  discovered  a  fallacy  in  them. 

My  young  Aleck  had  a  mind  in  which  this  strong  love 
of  truth  was  united  to  an  imagination,  full  of  color  and 
beauty — a  rare  combination,  indeed.  For  there  is  a 
form  of  mind,  cold,  bare,  in  which  truth  assumes  rigid- 
ity and  an  absolute  tyranny.  What  we  call  a  fine  sense 
of  humor  is  wanting  to  it.  Such  a  mind  has  no  wings ; 
it  cannot  go  far.  Its  truths  do  not  attract  us.  We  look 
at  them  and  yawn.  It  lives  in  the  forms  of  things,  and 
sees  no  spirits  in  them.  It  is  incapable  of  feeling  the 
beauty  and  the  disguised  truths  of  poetry.  It  would  ask 
of  the  Iliad,  "  What  does  it  prove  ? "  and  before  the 
fables  of  La  Fontaine,  indignantly  demand  "  Can  ani- 
mals talk?" 

My  Aleck  was  far  above  this.  His  eyes  of  a  deep 
blue,  sparkling  with  intelligence,  were  made  to  delight 
in  the  colors  of  the  dawn  and  the  sunset,  as  well  as 
in  the  soil  under  his  feet.  He  had  superb  health,  and 
at  fourteen,  the  stature  of  a  young  athlete. 

"  Life  is  glorious,  isn't  it  ? "  I  heard  him  say  one 
day.  "  I  am  so  much  obliged  to  mother  for  having  me. 
I  don't  really  know  what  I  should  have  done,  if  I  hadn't 
been  born." 

His  nature  was  full  of  kindness,  sensitive  to  suffering 
even  of  the  meanest  insect.  I've  seen  him  stoop  to 
turn  over  an  ugly  black  beetle  that  lay  on  its  back,  help- 
lessly fluttering  its  thread-like  legs  in  the  air,  in  a  hope- 


AN  EXPERIMENT   IN   ALTRUISM       279 

less  effort  to  get  on  its  feet  again.  His  intelligence  was 
alert;  no  need  to  explain  the  same  thing  twice  to  him. 
But  I  did  not  know  all  his  worth  at  first.  I  had  to  be 
teased  by  the  stupidities  of  the  other  boys  before  I  knew 
that  I  had  found  a  precious  stone  among  my  pebbles. 
Then  I  saw  the  prospect  of  another  friendship  to  be 
the  joy  of  my  declining  years,  as  the  friendship  of  my 
boyhood  had  sweetened  my  youth. 

His  example  was  a  spur  to  the  other  boys ;  but  there 
is  no  spur  that  has  the  power  of  being  effective  year 
after  year,  except  that  which  comes  from  one's  self ;  and 
although  all  my  boys,  who  finished  their  years  of  pro- 
bation with  me,  had  learned  with  a  certain  pleasure  the 
elementary  facts  of  chemistry,  that  is  to  say,  enough  to 
make  intelligent  agriculturists  of  themselves,  there  was 
none  but  Aleck  who  persisted,  after  acquiring  the  neces- 
sary information.  The  power  of  patient  observation  and 
brooding  reflection  is  a  gift,  not  an  acquirement. 

As  for  the  general  success  of  my  plans,  I  saw  with 
pleasure  a  very  respectable  number  of  young  boys  grow 
up  capable  of  earning  an  honorable  and  useful  liveli- 
hood. I  saw  a  general  interest  in  horticulture  and  agri- 
culture grow  and  spread  around  me;  and  I  founded  an 
agricultural  school  that  has  enriched  the  community  in 
many  ways;  and  I  learned  for  myself  that  education 
means  something  quite  individual,  for  it  means  putting 
a  man  into  harmony  with  his  environment ;  making  him 
capable  of  using  its  advantages ;  giving  him  tastes,  which 
it  is  possible  to  gratify  in  his  hours  of  leisure,  so  that 
he  may  be  delivered  from  the  temptations  and  torments 
of  ennui.  The  great  trouble  with  most  people  is  that 
they  don't  know  what  to  do  with  their  leisure  hours. 
Man  is  naturally  inclined  to  physical  action,  and  loves 
the  excitement  of  danger.  He  is  born  warrior  and 
hunter;  but  civilization  would  make  of  him  a  man  of 
peace  and  a  vegetarian.  She  gives  him  a  thousand  arti- 
ficial tastes  in  compensation  for  the  stifling  of  his  in- 


stincts.  Education  gives  itself  the  enormous  task  of 
modifying  these  instincts,  to  make  them  harmonize  with 
artificial  surroundings.  What  are  all  the  crimes,  per- 
fidies, and  hypocrises  of  society  but  reversions  to  these 
savage  instincts,  which  make  the  foundation  of  every 
man.  We  are  tamed  bears  with  be-ribboned  head- 
dress, made  to  dance,  and  taught  to  eat  bonbons. 
But  the  master's  whip  out  of  sight,  we  go  on  all  fours 
again,  tear  our  pretty  ribbons  to  pieces,  throw  away 
our  bonbons  and  feed  again  on  flesh  and  blood. 

This  is  what  our  lower  classes  are  continually  doing. 
They  fill  their  leisure  hours  with  sensual  gratifications. 
Go  into  any  one  of  the  great  popular  amusement  parks 
of  our  large  cities,  and  watch  how  the  people  amuse 
themselves.  Their  amusement  is  an  interpretation  of 
their  daily  life.  They  live  half  the  time  in  public.  Home 
is  but  a  place  to  sleep,  not  always  a  place  to  eat.  They 
spend  a  great  part  of  their  time  in  street-cars,  elevators, 
railway  carriages,  subjected  to  the  irritating  influences 
of  ceaseless  noise  and  constant  nervous  jars.  All  the 
senses  are  so  ceaselessly  appealed  to,  that  wearied,  ex- 
hausted with  over-work,  the  nervous  system  has  lost  its 
power  to  respond  healthily  to  natural  stimuli  and  con- 
stantly seeks  novel  excitements,  for  the  sake  of  a  pleas- 
urable sensation.  To  gratify  that  sensation,  we  seek 
to  startle,  confuse  and  further  excite  the  over-worked 
senses — speaking  always  to  them,  because  we  seem  to 
have  lost  the  art  of  speaking  to  the  heart  and  brain. 
In  this  country  we  have  not  gone  so  far  as  the  Parisians, 
who,  to  quicken  their  jaded  senses,  appeal  to  them  all 
at  once  in  certain  dramatic  representations  in  which  a 
change  of  scene  is  announced  by  a  differently  colored 
light,  while  an  orchestra  plays  in  a  different  key,  and 
an  atomizer  in  the  center  of  the  theater  disperses  a 
different  odor ;  but  we  aren't  far  behind  it ;  we  require 
to  be  tricked  and  amused  like  children,  bumped  and 
tossed  and  turned  in  scenic  railways  and  "  roulettes " 
and  "  ticklers."  We  don't  have  bull-fights,  but  we  must 


AN   EXPERIMENT    IN   ALTRUISM       281 

feast  our  eyes  and  thrill  our  blood  on  mimic  railway 
wrecks,  steamer  explosions,  and  other  horrors  too  nu- 
merous to  mention. 

No  fact  or  truth  can  get  simply  and  quietly  impressed 
on  the  public  mind.  It  must  be  shouted,  sung,  danced, 
symbolized,  and  placarded  on  all  our  walls.  Our 
churches  built  in  the  name  of  Him  who  had  not  where 
to  lay  his  head,  vie  with  each  other  in  the  splendor  of 
their  appointments,  and  women- journalists  tell  the  fash- 
ionable world  that  their  orayer-books  must  match  their 
Sunday  gown! 

There  was  a  time  when  men  and  women  did  not  go 
to  church  to  be  entertained,  to  listen  to  good  music  and 
eloquent  rhetoric,  to  look  at  beautiful  flowers,  to  feel 
an  aesthetic  pleasure  in  the  play  of  soft  patches  of 
colored  light  on  stately  pillars  or  frescoed  walls.  Not 
that  I  mean  to  say  anything  against  the  refining  influ- 
ence of  music,  art,  and  eloquence.  I  could  not,  were  I 
to  try,  say  enough  in  praise  of  them.  They  are  the 
crowning  delights  of  civilization.  Only,  the  sweet  vo- 
luptuous sensation  arising  from  them  should  never  for  a 
moment  be  mistaken  for  a  religious  sentiment — for  that 
pure,  rapt,  austere  sentiment,  which  annihilates  the  body 
and  its  claims,  and  brings  the  bare  cell  of  the  devout 
monk  nearer  to  the  portals  of  heaven  than  the  stateli- 
est cathedral. 

If  Christ  could  enter  one  of  our  fashionable  churches 
to-day,  as  he  walked  the  shores  of  Galilee  1900  years 
ago,  bare-footed,  bare-headed,  do  you  think  he  could 
utter  there,  with  anything  but  irony,  that  profound 
truth : 

"  Take  no  thought  for  your  life,  what  ye  shall  eat  or 
what  ye  shall  drink,  nor  yet  of  your  body  what  ye  shall 
put  on.  Is  not  the  life  more  than  the  meat  and  the 
body  than  raiment  ?  "  or : 

"  What  went  ye  out  for  to  see  ?  A  man  clothed  in 
soft  raiment?  Behold  they  which  are  gorgeously  ap- 
parelled and  live  delicately,  are  in  kings'  courts." 


THE  JOURNAL  OF  A  RECLUSE 

In  her  admirable  criticism  of  German  composers, 
Mme.  de  Stae'l  says: 

"  Those  who  do  not  love  painting  in  itself  attach  a 
great  importance  to  the  subjects  of  pictures.  They  wish 
to  find  in  them  the  impressions  which  dramatic  scenes 
produce.  It  is  the  same  in  music.  Those  who  enjoy 
it  but  feebly,  require  it  to  be  faithfully  accompanied 
by  words;  but  those  whom  music  stirs  to  the  very 
depths  of  their  souls,  regard  every  attention  not  given 
to  the  melody  itself,  as  but  an  impertinent  distraction." 

I  will  add:  It  is  the  same  with  the  sentiment  of 
religion.  If  it  needs  to  be  fostered,  as  in  the  Salvation 
Army,  by  flags  and  uniforms  and  beating  of  drums,  or 
in  our  fashionable  churches  by  attractive  music,  elo- 
quence, and  extraneous  decorations,  it  is  felt  but  feebly, 
and  exists  for  its  accompaniments,  and  not  for  itself. 

Along  with  this  constant  demand  to  be  entertained 
in  novel  and  exciting  ways,  there  exists  that  effeminate 
shrinking  from  discomfort,  that  morbid  sensitiveness  to 
the  impression  of  agreeable  and  painful  things,  which 
always  accompanies  physical  weakness.  It  is  an  age 
of  anodynes  and  sugar-coatings,  in  which  the  heroic 
element  is  stifled  under  cotton  and  cushion — an  age  in 
which  to  endure,  to  struggle,  to  fall  and  rise  again,  are 
old-fashioned  virtues — virtues  that  belong  to  something 
wholesome  and  primitive  in  man,  that  civilization  ought 
never  to  kill  out,  but  rather  to  foster  and  develop. 

I  meant  to  foster  and  develop  it  in  my  boys.  Ex- 
perience had  brushed  the  morning  dew  from  my  illu- 
sions. I  knew  that  I  couldn't  make  angels  of  my  boys, 
and  I  had  no  wish  to  try.  I  wanted  to  see  them  full- 
blooded,  broad-chested  men,  ready  to  fight  a  man's  bat- 
tle in  life  when  foes  assailed  them  within  or  without. 

While  we  were  clearing  off  the  ground,  or  preparing 
it  each  year  for  the  season's  sowing,  there  was  no  need 
of  physical  exercise.  But  there  were  long  winter 
and  autumn  days — and  days  in  spring,  when  nature 
was  working  for  us  and  we  had  nothing  to  do;  and 


AN   EXPERIMENT   IN   ALTRUISM       283 

these  were  the  days  I  wished  to  put  to  profit.  We  did 
a  great  deal  of  solid  reading  in  them,  and  we  played  a 
good  deal  at  athletic  games  out  of  doors.  There  is  a 
child  in  every  boy,  and  the  child  sometimes  persists  in 
the  man  to  the  end  of  his  life,  asking  to  be  amused, 
or  distracted.  Women  seem  to  be  able  to  amuse  them- 
selves much  better  than  men,  or  it  may  be  that  they  bear 
idleness  better.  But  for  a  man,  there  is  no  torture  like 
that  of  having  to  sit  around  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  yawn.  He  prefers  any  danger,  no  matter 
how  hair-raising,  to  such  an  insufferable  hour. 

We  played  tennis,  cricket,  golf,  baseball.  We  took 
long  exploring  tramps  together,  camping  out,  hunting, 
fishing.  We  climbed  to  the  summit  of  Mt.  Baker,  and 
sat  among  the  clouds.  As  for  myself,  I  found  the  boy 
in  me  was  as  much  alive  as  ever;  I  don't  know  that  I 
have  ever  laughed  more  heartily  in  my  life,  or  lived  with 
a  keener  zest  than  in  this  free,  out-door  life,  with  my 
boys.  The  sun  and  the  air  got  in  at  every  chink  of 
me,  cleaning  and  healing  old  mental  wounds,  and  filling 
me  once  more  with  the  sap  of  healthy  happiness. 

Aleck  passed  hours  in  the  laboratory  with  me,  where 
we  tried  to  surprise  some  of  nature's  secrets.  We  were 
amateurs  in  the  noblest  sense  of  the  word,  and  though 
we  surprised  no  new  secrets,  we  confirmed  the  truth  of 
many  known  discoveries ;  for  example,  that  the  leaves 
of  plants  are  so  many  tiny  laboratories  where  is  formed 
the  sugar  that  sweetens  the  roots  of  beets  or  the  grapes 
of  the  vine. 

From  the  sale  of  the  timber  cut  from  each  boy's 
tract  of  land,  he  received  a  good  round  sum,  and  was 
permitted  to  use  it  in  improving  his  land.  It  was  one 
of  my  principles  to  give  each  boy  as  much  liberty  as 
possible,  with  regard  to  the  use  he  made  of  his  land, 
experience  being  the  best  of  all  teachers.  Some  of 
them,  wishing  to  save  a  little  money,  bought  a  cheap 
quality  of  seed;  but  the  result  invariably  showed  them 
that  much  more  is  gained  by  perfecting  a  product,  than 


284        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

in  increasing  its  quantity ;  and  that  one  acre,  well  seeded, 
well  cultivated,  is  more  profitable  than  five  acres  of 
inferior  quality. 

I  wish  also  to  note  here,  that,  as  out-doors,  we  were 
not  only  farmers  and  athletes,  but  geologists,  botanists 
and  zoologists  as  well;  the  interest  which  my  boys  be- 
gan to  take  in  the  wild  animals  had,  for  its  first  ethical 
result,  a  very  noticeable  increase  of  genuine  sympathy. 
The  cruelty  of  youth,  like  its  courage,  comes  from 
ignorance.  I  was  amused  in  observing,  at  the  com- 
mencement of  our  rambles,  the  general  fear  of  every- 
thing new.  A  rare  insect,  an  unknown  plant,  or  ani- 
mal, seemed  noxious  to  them,  and  their  first  instinct 
was  to  kill  it.  But  reassured  by  me,  they  began  at  last 
to  feel  that  link  which  binds  all  creatures  in  a  common 
chain  of  being — a  feeling  which  enlarges  the  sense  of 
life  more  than  anything  else,  multiplying  its  sensations 
by  a  vivid  sympathy.  That  is  why  science  is  the  great 
civilizer;  and  morality  without  it,  as  a  basis,  is  subject 
to  terrible  mistakes.  I  never  forced  moral  precepts  on 
my  boys,  but  I  never  failed  to  seize  an  opportunity  that 
thrust  itself  on  me  to  inculcate  an  ethical  principle, 
knowing  well  that  we  do  not  readily  forget  what  strikes 
us  through  our  interest,  sympathy  or  by  novelty. 

It  happened  sometimes  that  a  boy's  illness  prevented 
him  from  attending  to  his  field,  for  a  while.  I  wished 
them  to  volunteer  their  help,  knowing  that  a  forced 
magnanimity  is  an  insult  to  him  who  receives  it,  and 
no  virtue  in  him  who  gives  it;  and  just  as  the  only 
education  that  remains  with  us  is  that  which  we  give 
ourselves,  so  the  only  well-rooted  morality  is  that  which 
is  born  in  us  of  our  relations  one  to  the  other,  inciting 
us  to  action. 

Therefore,  I  set  them  an  example  by  showing  a  lively 
sympathy  with  the  boy's  misfortune,  and  they  were  thus 
induced  to  offer  their  aid.  I  remember  one  particular 
instance  of  their  zeal.  A  violent  storm  had  uprooted 
trees,  dammed  the  natural  bed  of  a  stream  and  forced 


AN   EXPERIMENT   IN   ALTRUISM       285 

it  into  a  new  channel,  by  which  it  destroyed  a  great  part 
of  one  of  the  boys'  fields.  We  all  set  to  work  to  re- 
claim the  soil,  to  build  dykes,  clear  away  rubbish,  and 
force  the  stream  to  return  to  its  old  channel.  It  was 
difficult  work,  but  we  put  a  hearty  interest  and  a  good 
will  into  it,  and  were  delighted  at  our  success. 

But  because  it  was  also  one  of  my  fixed  principles 
that  each  boy  should,  as  far  as  lay  in  his  power,  be 
independent  in  his  work,  I  positively  forbade  any  aid 
to  be  given  to  him  who  neglected  his  work  for  his 
pleasures  or  for  his  love  of  idleness;  and  if  this  neg- 
ligence persisted,  I  took  from  the  boy  his  right  to  re- 
tain the  land,  and  put  it  into  other  hands. 

So  passed  eight  years,  not  without  disappointments, 
hopes  deceived,  ingratitude  at  the  hands  of  those  for 
whom  I  had  been  a  real  benefactor;  but,  in  spite  of  all 
that,  with  sufficiently  satisfactory  results  to  afford  me 
no  cause  for  repentance  in  the  step  I  had  taken. 

We  had  created  markets  for  our  fruits  and  vegetables ; 
a  current  of  intelligent  commercial  activity  circulated 
around  us;  an  agricultural  school  had  been  founded, 
other  industries,  growing  out  of  our  efforts,  had  arisen; 
and  we  ourselves  had  not  been  stagnating. 

My  young  Aleck  was  now  entering  his  twenty-first 
year.  He  had  built  for  his  mother  and  the  family  a 
pretty  little  cottage  on  his  land,  and  I  have  hardly 
ever  known  a  happier,  more  contented  little  family. 
The  mother  never  ceased  to  show  the  most  lively  grati- 
tude to  me  for  being,  as  she  said,  the  "  making "  of 
her  boy;  and  it  was  for  them,  as  much  as  for  me,  a 
real  fete  day,  when  I  consented  to  take  a  Sunday 
dinner  with  them.  They  would  have  liked  very  well  to 
have  me  with  them  every  Sunday,  but  I  still  had  some- 
thing of  a  wild  flavor  about  me.  I  needed,  from  time 
to  time,  to  bathe  in  this  human  river;  but  I  always 
came  out  of  it  grateful  for  my  tranquil  solitude,  where 
I  bathed  in  another  human  river,  that  of  the  great  souls 
who  have  enriehed  the  race  with  their  thoughts.  The 


286        THE   JOURNAL   OF   A   RECLUSE 

man  whom  the  hand  of  knowledge  has  once  seized, 
never  frees  himself  again.  But  I  saw  with  a  little  in- 
quietude that  my  Aleck  was  following  rather  too  closely 
my  footsteps  and  seemed  headed  towards  celibacy,  where 
I  was  not  so  sure  that  he  would  find  as  much  happiness 
&s  I.  For  it  is  very  hard  to  free  one's  self  from  the 
example  and  prejudices  of  the  race;  and  I  thought  I 
should  like  to  see  Aleck  well  married.  I  ventured  to 
speak  to  him  about  it  one  day ;  and  he  frankly  confessed 
that  though  he  liked  all  the  girls  well  enough,  he  hadn't 
found  any  one  of  them  sufficiently  attractive  to  com- 
pensate him  for  the  loss  of  liberty.  They  talked  such 
nonsense,  too,  that  they  tired  him  in  the  long  run.  I 
felt  the  force  of  the  objection,  and  resigned  myself  to 
wait  the  arrival  of  the  incomparable  She  whose  non- 
sense would  seem  divine,  and  make  the  wisdom  of 
the  sages  infinitely  stupid  in  Comparison. 


CHAPTER  XII 

REUNION 

ONE  dreary  day,  at  the  close  of  November,  not  long 
after  this  conversation  with  Aleck,  the  following  note 
was  hastily  delivered  to  me  by  a  boy  on  horseback : 

"  George  Graham :  I  believe  in  your  generosity,  and 
I  need  you.  That  is  why  I  am  writing  you.  My  wife, 
for  aught  I  know,  is  lying  at  death's  door  with  a  new- 
born infant  at  her  side.  My  other  two  children  are 
hungry.  As  for  myself,  I  am  helpless,  nailed  to  the 
floor  by  an  accident  which  may  prove  fatal.  I  cannot 
say  that  I  hope  it  will  not  prove  so.  You  will  come  at 
once.  I  know  you  will.  The  boy  who  brings  you  this 
will  tell  you  where  we  are  and  return  with  you,  bring- 
ing along  some  food.  I  have  also  asked  him  to  send 
out  a  physician  and  a  nurse  right  away.  Therefore, 
there  is  nothing  for  you  to  do  but  come  yourself. 
"Very  truly  yours, 

"J.    McKENZIE." 

"  Did  you  send  a  doctor  out  to  him  ?  "  I  asked  the 
boy  who  brought  the  note. 

"  Yes,  sir.    Dr.  Elbright." 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  man?" 

"  He  has  an  arm  and  a  leg  broken." 

"  What  about  the  provisions  ?  " 

"  I  thought  we'd  get  them  on  our  way  back  through 
town." 

"That's  right.     Did  he  tell  you  what  to  get?" 

"Yes,  sir.     Tea,  sugar,  bread,  and  eggs." 

287 


"  I  have  all  that  here.  Can  you  go  out  and  saddle 
a  horse  for  me,  while  I  get  the  things  ready  ?  " 

"Yes,   sir." 

I  added  a  beefsteak,  some  bacon,  and  fresh  fruits  to 
the  stock  of  provisions,  and  giving  the  hamper  into  the 
charge  of  the  boy,  we  started  off  at  once. 

Is  there  so  much  of  the  selfish  brute  in  us  that  we 
do  not  know  how  to  forget  and  forgive?  I  blush  with 
shame  to  confess  it,  yet  my  first  movement  wasn't  at 
all  one  of  pity.  No,  I  felt  a  lively  satisfaction.  Time 
had  avenged  me.  "//  tempo  e  galant'  uomo"  I  said 
to  myself  with  a  smile  on  my  lips,  while  hastening  to 
her  aid.  Yes,  it  was  of  her  that  I  was  thinking,  not  of 
him.  I  had  never  made  the  slightest  effort  in  all  these 
years  to  know  anything  about  her,  where  she  lived, 
whether  she  was  happy,  or  unhappy.  But  I  had  learned 
indirectly  that  she  lived  ten  or  twelve  miles  down  the 
bay ;  and  that  she  had  had  the  first  year  of  her  marriage, 
a  little  girl  who  must  now  be  nine  years  old. 

We  rode  rapidly  through  the  woods,  skirting  the  bay. 
A  fine  rain,  like  a  thick  mist,  shut  out  the  view  on  all 
sides.  There  was  something  singularly  in  harmony  with 
my  feelings  in  this  dull  rain  that  gave  no  definite  out- 
line to  anything.  There  was  nothing  well-defined  in 
my  feelings  either,  except  a  general  sentiment  of  satis- 
faction. I  did  not  try  to  fancy  how  she  would  look, 
after  these  years  of  absence.  I  did  not  trouble  myself 
about  thinking  how  I  should  greet  her.  But  when  at 
last  I  caught  sight  of  the  little  log  house  on  a  side-hill 
clearing,  overlooking  the  bay,  looking  so  dull  and  lonely, 
with  its  background  of  somber  pines  and  firs,  something 
made  my  heart  sink  drearily.  I  saw  her  again,  as  I  had 
seen  her  the  last  time,  I  heard  the  sound  of  her  voice 
with  its  unforgettable  accent,  so  rich  and  sweet ;  and 
it  took  real  courage  to  alight  from  my  horse  and  knock 
at  the  door. 

A  tiny  girl,  apparently  six  or  seven,  but  who  was 
older  than  she  looked,  opened  the  door,  saying  to  me: 


REUNION  289 

"  Come  in,  sir.  Papa  is  there,"  and  she  pointed  to  an 
adjoining  room.  "  He  is  hurt  very  bad,  my  papa  is, 
and  mamma  is  sick,  too." 

She  was  a  lovely  child,  with  dark,  wavy  hair  in  pretty 
'disorder,  large,  brown  eyes,  and  the  sweetest,  little  red 
mouth,  just  made  for  kisses.  She  ran  rather  than  walked 
to  the  half-opened  door,  threw  it  open,  saying :  "  They 
are  here." 

Yes,  they  were  there.  I  should  have  known  him  any- 
where, though  he  had  aged  and  his  hair  was  whitening. 
He  lay  on  some  bear-skins  on  the  floor,  near  his  wife's 
bed.  But  as  for  her,  I  would  have  passed  her  by,  and 
never  for  a  moment  recognized,  in  the  worn,  thin  face, 
aged  before  its  time,  and  the  sunken  eyes  that  reddened 
with  tears,  as  they  looked  at  me,  the  woman  whom  I 
had  so  often  called  the  joy  and  pride  of  my  life ! 

All  that  was  personal  in  my  feeling  for  her,  all  re- 
sentment, all  my  cruel  satisfaction  in  her  woe,  died  in 
a  moment,  and  I  became  human  again.  I  saw  nothing 
before  me  but  misery,  which  it  was  in  my  power  to  al- 
leviate to  some  degree.  At  a  glance,  I  saw  what  was 
needed.  A  feeble  fire  was  burning  on  the  hearth,  and 
on  the  bare  table  stood  a  half  loaf  of  bread.  The  whole 
room  had  that  sordid  air  which  comes  from  neglect. 

I  approached  McKenzie,  first,  saying :  "  I  thank  you 
very  much  for  sending  for  me ;  but  why  did  you  not  do 
it  sooner  ?  " 

"  It  was  not  necessary  until  to-day,"  he  replied,  "  but 
this  little  one,"  he  put  his  arm  around  the  child  who  had 
nestled  on  the  rug  close  beside  him,  "my  wife  and  the 
babies  mustn't  suffer.  That's  all  the  fire  we  have;  the 
little  one  gathered  the  sticks  near  the  house.  I  am 
afraid  to  let  her  go  far  away.  Fortunately,  the  weather 
isn't  too  cold,  only  a  little  raw.  The  child  was  on  the 
watch  all  morning  for  a  passerby.  Luckily  a  boy  had 
come  out  for  game;  she  saw  him  and  I  made  a  mes- 
senger of  him,  or  God  knows  what  would  have  become 
of  us ;  for  that's  the  last  loaf." 


290        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

"  I  thank  you  again  for  your  confidence  in  me. 
There's  a  doctor  and  a  nurse  on  the  way.  Are  you 
suffering  much  ?  " 

"  Horribly,  but  never  mind  me." 

I  took  off  my  coat  to  get  ready  for  work,  saying: 

"  What's  your  name,  little  girl  ?  " 

"  Edith,  sir,  only  I'm  called  Eda  for  short,  and  for 
petting.  I  like  it  best." 

"  Oh,  do  you  ?  Well,  bless  your  little  heart,  Eda  you 
shall  be  to  me.  Now,  can  you  help  me  to  find  things, 
Eda?" 

"  Yes,  sir."  She  leaped  from  the  floor,  and  at  the 
same  moment  a  pretty  head  looked  out  from  the  bed- 
clothes near  his  mamma.  She  saw  it  in  a  moment,  and 
said  with  a  funny  little  air  of  command: 

"  Lie  down,  Willie,  you'll  catch  more  cold,  and  make 
mamma  cold,  lifting  the  covers  that  way." 

"  I'm  hungry,"  he  whimpered. 

"  Are  you,  my  child  ?  Well,  I've  brought  you  some- 
thing to  eat  and  you  are  going  to  have  it  very  soon." 

I  approached  the  bed,  as  I  said  this,  and  adjusted  the 
quilt  over  the  little  shoulders.  Abby  was  sobbing,  her 
face  covered  with  her  hands. 

"  Abby !  "  I  said  gently.  "  Don't  cry.  Tell  me  what  I 
can  do  for  you  first  of  all." 

"  Nothing !  nothing ! "  she  sobbed.  "  Nothing  for  me. 
Help  them,"  and  she  buried  her  face  in  the  pillow.  I 
softly  stroked  her  head.  I  would  have  done  it  had  she 
been  a  perfect  stranger  to  me.  It  was  her  suffering, 
not  herself,  that  touched  me. 

"  Trust  me,"  I  said,  "  a  nurse  will  soon  be  here.  You 
will  have  all  the  care  you  need  now,  until  you  are  a 
strong  woman  again.  I  promise  you  that." 

I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  tiny  baby  asleep  beside 
her.  It  looked  healthy;  and  Abby  herself  did  not 
seem  to  be  in  immediate  danger,  so  turning  to 
my  little  assistant,  I  asked :  "  Where  is  the  kitchen, 
Eda?" 


REUNION  291 

She  took  me  into  another  room ;  there  were  but  three 
rooms  in  all  in  the  house.  I  started  a  fire  in  the  stove, 
found  a  bucket  in  which  the  water  did  not  appear  to  be 
fresh,  and  asked: 

"  Where  do  you  get  fresh  water,  Eda  ?  " 

"  I'll  show  you.     It's  from  the  spring  near  the  bay." 

I  took  the  bucket,  and  receiving  her  directions,  gave 
the  bucket  to  the  boy  who  had  accompanied  me,  telling 
him  where  to  get  the  water,  and  taking  the  hamper  of 
provisions  from  him,  returned  to  the  house.  When  the 
boy  came  back  with  the  water,  I  bade  him  gather  us 
a  good  pile  of  dry  fagots  and  pine  cones,  and  then  dis- 
missed him  with  a  fee. 

Soon  we  had  a  good  fire  cheerfully  roaring  in  the 
stove,  and  I  fried  my  beefsteak.  The  child  helped  me 
to  prepare  the  meal,  washing  and  wiping  dishes  and 
bringing  salt  and  pepper,  and  other  things  needed.  Soon 
she  came  up  close  to  me,  and  said  with  a  sweet,  childish 
coquetry,  looking  up  and  smiling: 

"  You  are  almost  as  good  as  papa." 

"And  why  am  I  not  quite  as  good?" 

She  leaned  her  pretty  head  towards  me — where  do 
children  learn  these  fascinating  little  ways? 

"  My  papa  loves  me,"  she  answered. 

"  And  I — don't  I  love  you,  too  ?  "  I  put  down  the 
fork  which  I  was  holding,  and  seizing  her  round  the 
waist,  I  lifted  her  up,  kissed  the  moist,  red,  little  mouth  ; 
and  she  tried  to  hide  her  head  on  my  arm,  laughing 
with  all  her  might.  Such  a  dear,  sweet,  ringing,  child- 
ish laugh !  It  had  been  years  since  I  heard  a  laugh 
so  young  and  buoyant  as  that,  and  I  laughed  too — and 
the  boy  in  me  came  out  of  his  hiding-place,  and  for  a 
little  while  I  was  ten  years  old  again.  The  child's  vo- 
cabulary came  back  to  me.  My  work  was  play.  I  im- 
provised a  tray  from  a  large  bread  pan,  putting  a  clean 
napkin  over  it,  and  placing  my  beefsteak,  a  cup  of  tea, 
and  a  bit  of  toast  on  it,  carried  it,  first  of  all,  to  Mc- 
Kenzie,  whose  heroic  endurance  of  his  agonizing  situa- 


292        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

tion  touched  me  deeply.  He  drew  his  shirt  sleeve  across 
his  eyes,  and  said  to  me  hoarsely: 

"  I  am  full  up  to  the  throat.  Let  the  others  eat 
first." 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  there  is  plenty  for  all.  You  and  the 
little  one  may  eat  here,  and  I've  this  plate  ready  for 
Abby  and  the  boy.  By  the  way,  do  you  know  what 
Eda  has  just  said  to  me?" 

"  No.  I  heard  you  both  laughing.  It  was  music  to 
us.  She  has  a  sharp  tongue,  that  lassie  of  mine." 

"  She  said  that  I  was  almost  as  good  as  you.  That's 
a  compliment,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"My  God!  what  a  sarcasm  that  must  have  seemed 
to  you,"  he  murmured.  "  But  you  will  let  her  still 
think  I  am  good,  won't  you?  That's  all  I  have  to  live 
for.  Otherwise,  I "  here  he  made  a  significant  ges- 
ture by  drawing  his  finger  across  his  throat.  That  was 
the  first  thing  to  recall  to  me  our  mutual  relations.  I 
had  forgotten  them  utterly.  Did  he  think  that  the  past 
counted  anything  with  me,  now? 

"  Don't  be  afraid,"  I  replied  reassuringly.  "  What 
you  are  to  the  child,  you  shall  be  to  me." 

Abby  ate  a  little  of  the  bread  steeped  in  the  savory 
juice  of  the  steak,  and  drank  a  cup  of  tea. 

The  meal  over,  the  doctor  and  the  nurse  appeared. 
At  the  end  of  an  hour  the  capable  woman  had  given  an 
air  of  order  and  cleanliness  to  the  room,  the  doctor  had 
set  the  broken  arm  and  leg,  praising  justly  the  courage 
of  the  man.  It  seemed  that  in  pursuing  a  deer,  and  hav- 
ing taken  an  incautious  step  backwards,  he  had  fallen 
from  a  considerable  height,  breaking  his  right  arm  and 
leg.  After  the  first  shock  of  the  fall  was  passed,  he 
had  dragged  himself  a  quarter  of  a  mile  home,  arriving 
in  rags,  the  skin  mangled  and  torn,  where  he  had  lain 
exhausted,  suffering  agonies  for  hours,  but  bravely  sup- 
pressing his  groans,  so  that  he  might  not  add  to  the 
distress  and  anxiety  of  his  family. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

EDUCATING    A    GIRL 

IT  was  six  o'clock  before  I  left  the  house.  The  mist 
had  grown  thicker,  so  that  the  trees  looked  like  faint 
specters  through  it;  but  instead  of  impressions,  vague 
as  the  landscape  that  surrounded  me,  I  had  now  some 
very  clear  ones.  All  my  past  with  Abby  was  as  if 
obliterated,  or  rather  the  woman  who  had  given  me  so 
much  pain  and  so  much  happiness  (let  me  be  just,  and 
remember  that,  too),  was  dead  to  me.  The  woman  who 
lay  there  sick,  suffering,  was  completely  forgiven.  I 
had  ceased  to  love  her.  Strange  that  we  never  pardon 
fully,  until  we  have  ceased  to  love.  I  reflected  with 
humility  on  this  passion  so  violent,  so  exacting,  alas ! 
so  transitory.  I  had  loved  a  phantom  woman,  a  smiling 
mouth,  a  cheerful  eye,  a  skin  all  white  and  red.  The 
eye  had  faded,  the  skin  had  grown  sallow,  the  mouth 
no  longer  smiled,  but  drooped,  and  so  she  could  never 
again  make  my  heart  beat  fast  and  my  pulses  thrill  with 
rapture.  I  felt  even  frankly  grateful  to  the  fate  that 
had  pronounced  an  inexorable  "  no  "  to  our  union. 

But  I  quickly  abandoned  these  reflections  to  ask  my- 
self what  I  ought  to  do  for  these  helpless  beings  whom 
I  seemed  called  upon  to  succor.  The  beautiful  little 
girl  attracted  me  powerfully.  I  would  have  asked  noth- 
ing better  than  to  see  her  every  day  and  listen  to  her 
charming  prattle.  The  father  awoke  in  me  at  sight 
of  her — that  love  so  tender  and  sweet — the  only  love 
that  can  give  a  man  tranquil  nights  and  happy  days. 
My  imagination  commenced  to  work.  I  saw  myself 
her  tutor,  educating  her  into  a  fine  girl,  suppressing  her 
weaknesses,  guarding  her  against  pride  in  her  beauty, 

293 


294        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

filling  her  mind  with  solid  virtues.  And  why  not  do 
it  ?  Suddenly  it  flashed  over  me  that  she  belonged  some- 
what to  me  by  a  tie  of  blood.  I  was  her  great  uncle. 
And  the  other  children  were  in  some  degree  mine,  too. 
Why  not  build  a  house  for  the  family,  not  too  far  from 
mine,  where  I  could  look  after  their  education,  and  bring 
them  up  properly? 

I  lay  awake  that  night  a  long  time  revolving  the  pros 
and  cons  of  this  new  project,  and  the  pros  had  not  any 
great  difficulty  in  carrying  the  day  over  the  cons;  and 
breakfast  over,  I  started  again  for  the  little  hut. 

I  found  everybody  as  well  and  as  cheerful  as  could 
be  expected.  The  nurse  reported  that  Abby  had  passed 
a  wakeful  night,  but  was  in  no  real  danger.  After 
these  proper  inquiries,  I  paved  the  way  to  the  intro- 
duction of  the  subject  which  I  had  most  at  heart,  and 
at  last  explained  my  hopes  and  plans  to  McKenzie.  He 
reddened  and  turned  nervously  on  the  couch  on  which 
he  had  been  placed  in  the  room  adjoining  that  in  which 
his  wife  lay. 

"  Did  the  doctor  tell  you  that  it  was  all  over  with 
me  ?  "  he  said  at  last. 

"  By  no  means ;  but  he  says  that  your  recovery  will 
be  slow.  However,  that  is  not  the  question.  The  ques- 
tion is  the  education  of  your  children." 

"  Yes,  yes.  I  have  understood  that  you've  turned 
school-master.  That  is  becoming  " — he  suddenly  stopped 
as  if  ashamed  of  what  he  was  going  to  say,  and  ex- 
tended his  hand,  cordially  grasped  mine,  and  continued : 

"  I  have  no  right  to  stand  in  my  children's  way,  and 
I  ought  to  be  very  grateful  to  you.  In  fact,  I  really 
am  grateful.  But  hear  me  and  don't  laugh.  I  am 
the  same  man,  and  I  am  not  the  same  man,  whom  you 
knew  of  old.  It  is  the  little  one  who  has  transformed 
me.  Can  you  believe  me  ?  "  He  lowered  his  voice  for 
fear  of  being  heard  in  the  next  room.  "  My  wife  was 
very  ill  at  her  birth,  and  was  a  long  time  getting  back 
her  strength;  so  the  care  of  the  little  one,  from  the 


EDUCATING   A   GIRL  295 

very  first,  fell  on  me.  One  finishes  by  loving  very  much 
whatever  one  takes  care  of,  if  it  is  only  a  beast  or  a 
flower.  But  when  it  is  a  being  so  beautiful,  so  perfect 
as  she  is,  forgive  me  if  I  seem  to  rave — one  ends  by 
adoring  her.  She  is  so  clever!  the  little  chatter-box. 
She  charmed  you,  too,  at  first,  didn't  she?  Le  coup  de 
foudre.  She  does  it  with  everyone.  And  don't  you 
see  ?  I  can't  bear  to  share  her.  I  should  like  her  to  owe 
everything  to  me.  There — that's  the  old  man  in  rne, 
again.  You  recognize  him,  don't  you?  But  I  loved  her 
so  that  I  choked  back  the  cries  of  pain  that  were  ready 
to  break  from  me  in  my  agony.  I  never  did  any- 
thing so  fine  in  my  life  as  that,  and  I  did  it  to  spare 
her  pain.  And  I  love  her  so  well  that  I  can  restrain 
the  cries  of  wounded  paternal  love,  if  you  should  suc- 
ceed in  getting  the  first  place  in  the  heart  of  my  child." 

I  blushed  in  my  turn.  I  understood  that  he  was 
right  to  feel  in  this  way. 

"  Mack,"  I  said,  using  the  familiar  abbreviation  by 
which  I  sometimes  addressed  him  when  we  were  in  ac- 
cord, "  I  was  wrong.  I  deserve  all  the  reproaches  you 
wish  to  give  me,  but  I  must  confess  that  if  I  had 
thought •" 

"That  I  loved  my  wife  and  children?"  he  inter- 
rupted with  an  accent  of  malicious  irony. 

I  was  silent.  I  felt  like  a  criminal.  What  right  had 
I  to  assume  that  I  could  do  better  than  he  with  his 
own?  He  was  silent,  too,  evidently  reflecting,  for  his 
heavy  eyebrows  were  tightly  knitted.  I  rose  to  say 
good-by,  and  at  this  moment  the  little  girl  opened  the 
door  and  running  towards  me,  put  her  arms  about  my 
body,  and  lifted  her  little  mouth  for  a  kiss.  I  stooped 
and  kissed  her. 

"  Come  here,  Eda,"  said  her  father. 

She  ran  to  him  and  caressed  him. 

"Do  you  love  this  gentleman?" 

"  Yes,  and  he  loves  me,  too." 

"  Do  you  love  him  better  than  me  ?  " 


296     THE  JOURNAL:  OF  A  RECLUSE 

"  No !  no !  no !  "  she  said  emphatically,  "  but  he  is 
good  to  you,  and  good  to  us  all." 

"  You  are  right.  There,  run  away  to  your  mamma ; 
I  want  to  speak  to  him."  He  sighed  heavily,  and  when 
the  child  was  gone,  he  said:  "I  am  a  jealous  egoist. 
I  shall  very  likely  never  be  anything  else.  You  will 
very  often  regret  your  proposal  of  this  morning,  but  I 
am  going  to  accept  it.  I  am  even  going  to  change  front, 
and  ask  you  to  hasten  the  beginning  of  this  vie  a  cinq. 
I  probably  need  you  more  than  all  the  others.  I  hon- 
estly believe  that  it's  all  up  with  me;  and  that  it's  time 
to  be  looking  after  the  future  provision  of  mine  hostages 
to  fortune.  My  wife  has  always  regretted  you.  She 
has  never  once  pronounced  your  name  to  me.  That  is 
why  I  know  that  she  has  been  thinking  too  much  of  it. 
But  both  of  you  ought  to  be  thankful  to  me  for  rescuing 
you  from  a  ridiculous  and  impossible  situation.  You 
were  trying  to  be  friends  and  learning  to  be  lovers. 
There  is  nothing  in  the  world  so  unstable  as  the  friend- 
ship between  a  man  and  a  woman.  Sooner  or  later,  the 
unconscious  attraction  of  sex  asserts  itself;  and  then 
friendship  is  over.  I  cut  the  Gordian  knot  for  you. 
She  has  not  always  been  unhappy  with  me.  She  has 
loved  her  children,  especially  the  boy,  who  would  have 
borne  your  name  if  her  lips  had  been  courageous  enough 
to  pronounce  it.  It  was  I  who  proposed  calling  him 
George.  She  paled  and  said  '  No,  I  wish  him  to  be 
called  after  my  father.'  Perhaps  we  can  christen  this 
last  little  fellow  after  you,  but  I  shan't  promise.  But 
the  girl — if  there  is  any  excuse  needed  for  what  we 
did — I  offer  her  as  the  excuse.  She  had  a  right  to  be — 
eh?  She  has  stopped  my  lips  when  a  regret  for  the  loss 
of  my  liberty  would  have  passed  them.  She  makes 
everything  right,  everything  possible;  but  I  shall  seem 
to  be  in  my  dotage  if  I  talk  more  of  her.  She  is  my 
life,  that's  all." 

His  lips  trembled.  I  had  no  idea  that  he  was  capable 
of  so  strong  an  emotion.  I  thought  of  those  fathers 


EDUCATING  A   GIRL  297 

with  a  genius  for  loving,  who  have  made  the  tragedies 
of  literature,  the  Pere  Goriots,  the  King  Lears  of  the 
Steppes.  Then  there  are  such  fathers.  He  might  be 
one  of  them,  and  this  radiant  little  creature  made  him 
tremble  like  a  child. 

I  built  the  house  for  them,  nearer  the  town  than 
mine,  and  concealed  from  my  own  place  by  an  inter- 
vening hill,  covered  with  a  thick  wood.  There,  about  a 
quarter  of  an  hour's  walk  from  me,  sheltered  from 
misery,  they  were  to  find  a  home  for  the  rest  of  their 
days.  My  habits  were  not  at  all  changed  by  this  new 
interest  which  had  entered  my  life.  I  still  clung  to 
my  old  home.  I  still  looked  after  my  boys,  but  I  had 
a  girl  to  educate  now.  That  was  all. 

But  how  shall  I  explain  this  paradox?  The  more 
effort  I  put  forward  to  succeed  admirably,  the  farther 
from  success  I  seemed  to  be.  With  my  boys,  I  had 
clear,  definite  ideas.  I  understood  them.  I  had  been 
a  boy  myself.  But  a  girl  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  creature 
of  another  mold.  I  have  come,  now,  to  believe  that 
after  all,  there  isn't  so  great  a  difference  between  them 
as  I  then  thought  there  was;  and  that  the  apparent 
difference  is  owing  to  the  fact  that  the  girl  is  earlier 
subjected  to  the  restrictions  of  conventionalities  than 
the  boy,  and  matures  more  rapidly  than  he. 

As  to  her  future,  that  was  the  problem  which  ab- 
sorbed me.  First  of  all,  I  wished  her  to  be  wholly 
woman,  and  no  hybrid  creature  with  masculine  tastes 
and  airs.  But  when  I  came  to  question  myself  as  to 
what  I  meant  by  that,  I  found  myself  falling  into  certain 
masculine  prejudices,  by  which  I  wished  her  to  please 
me  rather  than  to  please  herself. 

One  day  I  had  a  long  conversation  with  her  father 
on  the  subject.  It  was  the  first  year  of  his  removal 
to  his  new  home  which  he  was  not  destined  to  occupy 
long.  He  died  the  second  year  after  our  reunion.  He 
never  recovered  from  the  effects  of  his  accident.  A 
creeping  paralysis  seized  him,  which  made  him  almost 


298        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

helpless,  but  did  not  impair  his  faculties.  All  the  ran- 
cor, all  the  antipathy  he  had  ever  excited  in  me  had 
quite  disappeared,  leaving  in  me  nothing  but  a  gentle 
pity,  and  often  a  genuine  admiration  for  the  keen  flashes 
of  psychological  insight,  which  he  often  showed  in  our 
conversations. 

I  saw,  too,  that  the  sharing  of  his  daughter's  heart 
with  me  was  a  bitter  trial  to  him,  and  that  he  struggled 
manfully  to  suppress  all  signs  of  the  moody  fits  that 
attacked  him  from  time  to  time,  and  of  which  he  was 
ashamed. 

As  for  Abby,  she  had  quite  recovered,  and  went  about 
her  daily  tasks  with  a  calmness  that  was  the  reflection 
of  the  religion  of  resignation  which  she  faithfully  pro- 
fessed. I  rarely  saw  her  alone  and  we  never  made  the 
slightest  allusion  to  the  past.  Evidently,  for  her,  as  for 
me,  it  was  buried  without  recall.  She  sometimes  quietly 
expressed  her  gratitude  for  what  I  was  doing  for  the 
family,  but  that  was  all.  The  gaiety,  the  caprice  of  her 
youth,  had  left  her  with  her  beauty;  for,  although  she 
was  not  ugly,  she  was  only  the  faded  portrait  of  the 
pretty,  vivacious  girl  of  former  days. 

On  the  day  of  the  conversation  alluded  to  above,  Mc- 
Kenzie  had  painfully  dragged  himself  into  the  orchard 
after  me,  where  the  apples  were  ripening  in  the  mild 
autumn  air,  and  the  golden-rod  was  sending  forth  its 
honey-like  fragrance  along  the  grassy  borders. 

The  little  one  had  followed  us  as  usual,  but  seeing 
Aleck  at  some  distance,  she  ran  after  him.  For  poor 
Aleck,  she  was  the  most  fascinating,  most  capricious, 
and  most  tyrannical  of  little  queens;  direct  result  of 
his  having  deliberately  spoiled  her,  in  always  giving 
way  to  her  whims.  She  knew  her  power  over  him  and 
abused  it,  as  people  with  power  always  do  when  they 
can. 

"  What  shall  we  do  with  that  little  miss  ?  "  asked  the 
father,  following  her  with  eyes  full  of  tenderness  and 
pride.  He  hadn't  the  slightest  jealousy  of  Aleck.  He 


EDUCATING  A  GIRL  299 

was  amused  by  the  tricks  which  she  sometimes  played 
on  him. 

"  That  is  the  question  of  questions,"  I  answered. 
"  Neither  you  nor  I  are,  perhaps,  the  best  masters  for 
a  young  girl." 

"  Oh,  as  for  me,  certainly  not.  You  are  right  there. 
But  what  is  wanting  in  you  that  you  do  not  know  how 
to  guide  a  young  girl  ?  " 

"  A  thousand  things :  first  of  all,  I  am  not  sure  about 
what  I  want  to  make  of  her.  Let's  talk  about  it  seri- 
ously. Perhaps  by  dint  of  reflection  and  discussion  we 
shall  dig  up  some  good  ideas.  All  that  I  know  well, 
now,  is  that  she  is  still  a  child  and  that  we  must  pa- 
tiently await  the  age  of  reason  before  we  can  decide  on 
her  future." 

"  What  future  is  there  for  a  woman  except  that  of 
wife  and  mother  ?  Isn't  that  the  future  of  all  women  ?  " 

"  Yes  and  no.  Mightn't  you  just  as  well  say  that 
it  is  the  fate  of  all  men  to  be  husbands  and  fathers? 
Yet  here  I  am,  neither  the  one  nor  the  other,  and  yet 
sufficiently  contented  and  happy." 

"  By  Jove,  you're  right.    Well,  what  then  ?  " 

"  We  must  bring  her  up  a  reasonable  woman,  give 
her  all  the  educational  advantages  possible  and  then 
let  her  choose  for  herself." 

"  Yes,"  he  said  hesitatingly.  "  That  sounds  all  right, 
but  look  here.  Let  us  understand  each  other.  I  am  not 
sure  that  I  know  what  you  mean  by  educational  ad- 
vantages. I  think  your  ideas  on  the  education  of  boys 
perfectly  sound,  and  I  think  they  may  be  applied  to 
girls,  too.  Fit  a  girl  for  what  she  can  do,  and  not  for 
what  she  thinks  she  can  do.  I  am  dead  set  against  the 
chinch-bug  that  wants  to  be  a  butterfly;  the  mole  that 
aspires  to  the  piercing  vision  of  an  eagle;  the  cabbage 
that  would  prefer  to  be  a  rose;  the  tallow-candle  that 
wants  to  be  Arcturus." 

I  laughed  and   said   I   was  exactly   of  his   opinion. 

"  Well,  do  you  think  Eda  has  any  particular  gifts  ?  " 


300        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

"  She  has  a  voice  of  remarkable  range,  Mack." 

"  That  only  means  that  she  has  wit  and  quick  feeling. 
Voice  expresses  feeling  by  the  range  of  pitch,  loudness, 
timbre.  Have  you  ever  noticed  that  imbeciles  and 
feeble-minded,  as  well  as  dull  persons,  have  little  or  no 
vocal  range?  They  express  themselves  in  a  dull,  mo- 
notonous, lifeless  way,  which  corresponds  to  their  de- 
ficiency in  intellect  and  feeling.  Excitable  persons,  on 
the  other  hand,  have  great  vocal  range.  Eda  is  ex- 
citable. And,  do  you  know,  one  of  the  very  things  I 
have  to  thank  God  most  devoutly  for,  is  that  she  hasn't 
musical  gifts ;  so  don't  let's  go  to  work  incubating  them 
for  her.  There  is  more  money  and  time  wasted  on 
music  than  would  wipe  poverty  from  the  face  of  the 
earth.  Did  you  ever  board  in  your  life?  Do  you  re- 
member the  parlor  piano?  and  the  young  man  with  the 
flute  in  the  next  room?  and  the  fellow  with  the  feet 
and  the  violin  over  your  head,  and  you  don't  know 
whether  it's  the  feet  or  the  violin  that  are  coming 
through  the  floor?  Let's  not  put  Eda  into  that  class. 
Let's  keep  her  hands  virgin.  She  is  as  natural  as  a 
wild  flower;  don't  you  think  so?" 

"  That  is  her  greatest  charm." 

"  Very  well,  we  won't  spoil  that  either  by  any  of . 
your  fashionable  boarding-schools.  Let's  keep  the  dew 
in  the  heart  of  our  wild  rose  as  long  as  we  can.  God 
knows  the  sun  of  worldliness  dries  it  out  soon  enough ! 
Why  spoil  her  simplicity  by  putting  her  among  girls 
who  are  no  longer  girls  except  in  years?  You  see,  I 
can't  bear  to  be  separated  from  her.  I  don't  want  her 
to  come  back  to  me  a  little  worldling,  her  head  full 
of  follies  and  vanities,  inflated  with  ideas  of  grandeur, 
discontented  with  home,  ashamed  of  her  mother  and 
me,  because  we  are  no  longer  young  and  brilliant. 
Beautiful  as  she  is,  infinitely  dear  as  she  is  to  me,  fresh 
as  that  flower  at  your  feet,  I  would  rather  see  her  stark 
and  cold  in  death  than  come  back  like  that  to  me." 

He  drew  his  shirt-sleeve  across  his  dripping  brow, 


EDUCATING   A   GIRL  301 

and  I  saw  that  he  was  trembling  violently.  I  hastened 
to  reassure  him,  and  bade  him  sit  down  on  the  low 
stone  orchard  wall. 

"  And  what  makes  it  more  dangerous  to  send  her 
away,"  he  continued,  "  is  that  she  is  cursed  with  beauty. 
I  say  it  advisedly,  cursed  with  beauty;  because  she 
pleases  without  the  least  effort  on  her  part.  She  does 
not  have  to  be  obliging,  good-natured,  clever,  sym- 
pathetic, helpful.  She  has  simply  to  show  herself  to 
be  charming.  I  have  known  beautiful  women  who  were 
monsters  of  egotism,  and  might  have  been  saints,  if  they 
had  only  been  ugly.  But  we  shan't  spoil  her.  I  notice 
that  you  never  tell  her  that  she  is  pretty.  Neither  do 
I;  sometimes  I  even  tell  her  that  she  is  an  ugly  little 
puss,  when  I  think  she's  setting  herself  up  from  a  look 
at  the  mirror." 

I  listened  to  him  with  great  satisfaction.  We  weren't 
far  removed  from  each  other  in  thought.  The  love  of 
this  charming  girl  had  brought  us  together. 

"  I  am  entirely  of  your  opinion,"  I  said.  "  We  shall 
keep  her  with  us.  But  do  you  know  what  I  was  think- 
ing while  you  were  talking?  It  is  this:  That  we  men 
are  always  thinking  of  women  in  relation  to  ourselves, 
and  never  with  regard  to  their  own  peculiar  individual- 
ity. Now,  it  may  happen  that  a  woman's  individuality 
is  marked  enough  to  warrant  her  in  taking  her  fate 
in  her  own  hands,  and  living  her  life  according  to  the 
dictates  of  her  best  feelings.  Now,  we  should  think  it 
very  droll  if  women  were  to  assign  us  our  life-role  on 
condition  of  undertaking  to  protect  and  care  for  us. 
Woman  has  become  dependent  on  man  through  the 
social  institutions  which  make  of  her  the  home-keeper, 
and  of  him  the  bread-winner.  The  dependence  is  not 
felt  when  the  relations  between  man  and  wife  are 
what  they  should  be ;  but  how  common  are  such  re- 
lations? Woman  sometimes  degenerates  in  the  com- 
pact, and  vain,  puerile,  egotistic,  by  her  extravagance 
changes  her  husband  into  a  mere  drudge  and  money- 


302        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

machine  to  satisfy  her  caprices.  Or,  the  woman  be- 
comes the  household  drudge  and  the  suffering  is  re- 
versed. I  would  have  every  woman  so  far  independent 
by  the  resources  of  her  brain  or  her  hand,  that  she 
need  not  fear  a  life  of  solitude,  if  she  cannot  find  her 
mate,  or  having  been  deceived,  finds  life  impossible  with 
the  man  she  has  chosen.  I  want  to  make  Eda  inde- 
pendent; that's  what  I  mean  by  giving  her  the  best 
educational  advantages." 

He  quite  agreed  with  me  on  the  aspect  of  the  question 
and  urged  me  to  take  wholly  upon  myself  the  task  of 
educating  her  and  the  two  boys. 

As  for  Abby,  she  was  quite  charmed  with  the  idea, 
but  one  day  she  said  to  me: 

"  I  feel  sure  that  you  will  not  misunderstand  me. 
There  is  one  thing  that  troubles  me  and  I  must  be 
frank  with  you.  You  know  that  while  I  esteem  your 
opinions  higher  than  my  own  or  those  of  anyone  whom 
I  know,  I  am  still  forced  to  disagree  with  you  on  one 
vital  point — vital  to  me,  at  any  rate,  for  it  makes  life 
possible.  I  mean  religious  faith.  I  wish  my  children 
to  be  brought  up  in  the  faith  that  has  saved  me.  Prom- 
ise me  that  you  will  not  insinuate  into  these  young 
minds,  who  adore  you,  any  doubt  of  this  reality  of 
realities.  If  I  were  capable  of  teaching  them  I  should 
hesitate  before  giving  them  to  anybody;  for,  he  who 
teaches  a  child  becomes  the  mother  of  its  soul.  I  have 
given  them  their  body ;  it  is  you,  now,  who  are  going  to 
furnish  it  with  a  soul  that  can  think." 

I  was  silent  a  moment,  for  I,  too,  think  that  the  first 
necessity  of  any  serious  conversation  is  frankness;  but 
frankness  is  not  always  incompatible  with  a  discreet 
silence.  After  pondering  a  minute,  I  said: 

"  Abby,  I  never  wantonly  destroyed  anybody's  faith ; 
for  that  might  mean  wrenching  a  cripple's  staff  from 
his  hand,  or  stealing  the  bread  of  life  from  a  starving 
soul.  Any  faith  is  good  that  keeps  the  life  clean  and 
the  heart  full  of  courage.  I  can  promise  you,  then, 


EDUCATING  A   GIRL  303 

that  as  long  as  your  children  believe  they  shall  not  be 
disturbed  in  their  faith  by  me.  But  if  the  day  should 
come  that  the  scaffolding  is  ready  to  fall,  and  there  is 
danger  of  their  being  hurt  by  its  fall,  that  day  I  shall 
speak  with  perfect  frankness,  giving  them  certitude  for 
doubt,  fixed  principles  for  dissolving  faiths,  ardor  for 
indifference.  For  me,  to  whom  religion  is  nothing  but 
poetry  petrified  into  dogma,  the  recognition  of  its  real 
character  does  not  in  the  least  change  the  value  of  its 
moral  precepts  which  have  been  given  to  us  by  social 
experience.  It  still  remains  a  crime  to  murder,  a  sin  to 
steal,  a  want  of  good  faith  to  lie  and  deceive.  It  is  still 
a  duty  to  help  others,  even  if  it  should  not  be  possible 
to  love  them  as  ourselves;  and  it  is  our  duty  to  refrain 
from  injuring  those  whom  we  dislike — which  is,  per- 
haps, better  for  them  and  for  us,  than  to  love  them  with 
our  tongues  and  hate  them  in  our  actions." 

She  colored  to  the  roots  of  her  hair,  and  looked  ready 
to  burst  into  tears.  I  felt  immediately  that  she  had  mis- 
understood me,  and  could  think  that  I  had  had  the  bad 
taste  to  allude  to  the  past,  which  was  far  from  my 
thoughts.  To  assure  her  that  I  was  only  speaking  in  a 
general,  purely  impersonal  way,  I  continued : 

"  It  is,  perhaps,  in  bad  taste  to  allude  in  this  way  to 
the  cruelties  of  the  church,  which,  in  the  name  of  Him 
who  said  '  Love  your  neighbor  as  yourself '  subjected 
the  honest  doubter  to  the  most  infamous  tortures,  or 
burned  him  at  the  stake ;  but  I  am  always  nettled  at  the 
supposition  that  there  can  be  no  morality  without  a  pro- 
fession of  faith  to  which  is  attached  a  hope  of  heaven 
or  fear  of  hell.  To  me,  to  love  the  right,  because  it  is 
right,  and  not  because  you  are  to  get  a  sugar-plum  for 
it,  or  to  be  whipped  if  you  don't,  is  a  far  nobler  love 
than  the  interested  one,  and  much  more  to  be  depended 
on." 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  whispered. 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive.     Do  you  trust  me?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  firmly  enough  now.     "  I  trust 


304        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

you  and  put  my  little  world  into  your  hands,  very  fear- 
lessly. But  take  especial  care  of  Edith.  Her  father 
adores  her,  but  he  takes  good  care  not  to  tell  her  all 
he  thinks." 

"  I  know  how  to  be  discreet,  too." 

At  this  moment  she  came  running  up  to  me,  calling 
me  as  was  her  wont,  "  Papa  George."  We  could  never 
get  her  to  say  uncle.  She  said  it  wasn't  a  pretty  name ; 
and  she  hated  the  word. 

"  O,  Papa  George !  Papa  George !  I've  something 
to  show  you.  No,  mamma,  I  don't  want  you  to  see  it " ; 
and  she  put  her  right  hand  into  mine  and  with  the 
other  made  a  sweeping  negative  gesture  towards  her 
mother. 

"  And  why  not  ?  "  asked  the  latter.  "  You're  always 
having  secrets  with  Papa  George  or  Aleck  and  never 
with  me.  Very  well,  I'm  going  to  have  my  secrets  with 
Willie  and  Bob." 

"That's  it  exactly,"  she  exclaimed,  frowning  darkly 
and  stamping  the  ground.  "  You  can't  keep  a  secret 
to  yourself.  You  promised  me  not  to  show  the  other 
bird's  nest  that  I  found,  and  you  told  Willie  the  first 
thing,  and  he  wouldn't  let  it  alone." 

"  Oh,  then  it's  another  bird's  nest,  is  it  ?  " 

Furious  at  herself  for  having  incautiously  betrayed 
her  secret,  the  little  one  screamed  out: 

"No,  no." 

"What!"   I   said.     "Isn't  it  a  bird's  nest?" 

"Yes,"  she  whispered,  turning  her  rosy  face  to  me. 

"Then  tell  mamma  that  she  was  right,  my  girl,  and 
we'll  go  and  look  at  it." 

I  had  said  it  very  tranquilly,  but  firmly. 

She  hesitated  a  moment.  She  was  a  most  rebellious 
little  soul;  and  I  had  had  my  little  scenes  with  her  be- 
fore; and  although  I  was  flexible  as  wax  on  a  trivial 
question,  I  was  hard  as  iron  on  a  principle,  and  she 
knew  that  I  loved  the  truth.  She  pulled  at  my  hand  as 
a  sign  to  go,  but  I  stood  quite  still,  holding  her  fast; 


EDUCATING  A   GIRL  305 

then  rapidly,  as  if  the  words  were  burning  her  tongue, 
she  said: 

"  Mamma,  you  are  right." 

I  insisted  on  nothing  more.  I  felt  the  fever  of  im- 
patience in  her,  the  anger  badly  suppressed.  The  child 
took  after  her  father  in  what  was  most  characteristic 
in  him — his  love  of  liberty  which  felt  the  least  re- 
straint as  a  heavy  burden:  his  love  of  out-door  life  in 
the  sun  and  rain,  and  she  promised  to  be  one  of  those 
women  who  despise  the  weaknesses  of  their  sex,  and 
aspire  to  the  liberties  of  their  brothers.  There  was 
something  in  her  nature  capable  of  great  excess  or  great 
perfection.  She  would  go  far  in  whatever  direction  she 
turned;  and,  therefore,  she  was  sometimes  the  despair 
of  her  mother.  I  do  not  know  how  I  had  obtained  an 
empire  over  her;  perhaps,  becaused  I  loved  her  wisely 
and  without  foolish  indulgence,  wishing  to  be  loved  by 
her  with  what  was  best  and  most  permanent  in  her, 
and  not  by  what  was  selfish  and  capricious.  It  some- 
times cost  me  a  good  deal  of  self-control  to  resist  her 
little  coaxing  ways,  when  she  wished  to  escape  from 
some  duty  or  task;  but  I  made  a  resolution  from  the 
very  first  to  guide  and  not  to  be  led,  and  never  to  dis- 
pute with  her,  or  reason  with  her,  as  the  euphemism 
of  our  days  has  it.  I  knew  from  observation  that  there 
is  nothing  so  futile  as  these  so-called  reasonings  be- 
tween children  and  adults.  They  are  taught  to  argue 
expertly  on  their  own  side,  and  the  argument  finishes 
usually  by  the  yielding  of  the  adult,  because  he  has  no 
longer  the  capacity  for  blind  persistence  that  is  a  trait 
of  youth.  Thus  they  are  taught  to  despise  counsel  that 
so  readily  yields  to  their  arguments,  and  to  lose  respect 
for  the  counselors.  Age,  to  them,  is  no  longer  a 
crown  of  dignity,  a  fruit-time,  for  which  the  blossom- 
time  existed,  and  therefore  we  have  at  present  the  piti- 
ful spectacle  of  an  old  age  that  asks  pardon  for  being 
old;  that  feels  itself  pushed  to  the  wall  and  in  the  way 
everywhere ;  and  with  tragic  facetiousness  tries  at  times 


306        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

to  deny  its  age  as  if  it  were  a  crime,  and  says  to  youth: 
"  I  am  as  young  as  you ;  I  am  seventy  years  young. 
My  heart  and  my  hair  are  not  the  same  date,"  forgetting 
that  youth  with  gray  hair  is  as  abnormal  as  decrepitude 
at  twenty.  To  be  respected,  one  must  be  respectable. 
Let  age  cease  its  grimacing  and  enter  upon  its  inheri- 
tance. Wisdom,  dignity,  moderation,  enlarged  sym- 
pathy, tranquillity,  the  possession  of  one's  self — these 
are  the  fruits  of  right  living.  This  is  old  age,  full  of 
service  still.  It  holds  out  the  hand  to  give,  not  to  get. 
It  demands  nothing.  It  knows  how  to  accept  what  is 
due  it,  with  gratitude.  It  sits  a  spectator  in  the  theater 
of  life,  but  an  interested  specator,  who  knows  how  to 
applaud  and  encourage  in  the  right  place. 

I,  too,  had  my  days  of  anxiety  over  "  the  little  one," 
as  her  father  so  fondly  called  her.  I  watched  her 
closely,  I  studied  her,  I  tried  to  glide  into  this  child's 
soul  to  find  the  world  new  again.  I  was  gay,  grave, 
even  severe,  if  it  were  necessary,  and  it  was  sometimes 
necessary  in  order  to  escape  this  furious  tyranny  of 
young  desires,  so  strong,  so  persistent. 

She  hated  dish-washing,  sweeping,  and  all  household 
tasks,  and  Abby,  who  was  in  her  element  there,  would 
willingly  have  spared  her  them;  but  I  insisted  that  she 
should  not  be  spared.  I  wished  to  make  her  equal  to 
anything.  In  the  division  of  labor,  that  of  the  household 
naturally  falls  to  woman,  and  her  training  there  must 
not  be  neglected.  Besides  that,  even  the  happiest  life 
offers  no  uniform  picture  of  unaltering  bliss ;  and  shoul- 
ders must  be  trained  to  bear  burdens  that  they  may  not 
droop  and  faint  under  them  when  life  offers  them. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A   BROKEN    SPIRIT 

MY  relations  with  the  children  gave  me  ample  oc- 
casion to  see  the  result  of  this  marriage,  of  which  the 
only  foundation  had  been  caprice  and  instinct.  I  can- 
not truthfully  say  that  it  was  more  unhappy  than  or- 
dinary love  marriages  are.  In  fact,  to  the  cursory  ob- 
server, it  might  even  have  passed  for  a  very  happy 
and  successful  one.  But  that  marriage  only  is  success- 
ful in  which  the  two  spouses  attain  the  full  develop- 
ment of  which  they  are  capable;  their  minds  maturing 
and  bearing  the  fruits  of  magnanimity  and  wide  sym- 
pathies. But  these  two  had  both  suffered,  narrowed. 
It  is  true,  that  the  man  had  gained  in  suppleness  and 
gentleness ;  but  the  gentleness  was  that  of  a  wild  animal 
grown  old  in  a  cage.  It  was  rather  a  loss  of  ferocity 
than  a  transformation.  He  was  still  at  bottom  the 
tiger — but  a  lethargic,  toothless  tiger  that  yawned  and 
fed  on  pap,  and  bit  and  tore  no  longer. 

One  day,  shortly  before  his  death,  he  was  dragging 
himself  along  in  the  sun  beside  me,  when  I  stepped  in 
front  of  him  to  remove  from  his  path  a  branch  of  pine 
which  the  wind  of  the  preceding  night  had  torn  from 
the  tree. 

He  uttered  an  oath:  I  turned  around  astonished.  I 
thought  that  he  had  hurt  himself. 

"  No,"  he  said  to  my  inquiry.  "  It's  nothing,  noth- 
ing at  all,"  but  his  face  was  burning  as  if  lighted  by 
some  interior  fire. 

"  It  is  only  an  explosion  of  some  remains  of  volcanic 
fire  in  me,"  he  said.  "  Ruined !  ruined !  dragging  my 
rags  of  flesh  about,  when  you  can  leap,  yet,  like  a  boy,* 

307 


308        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

and  I  ought  to  have  the  same  physical  energy  as  you. 
But  I  have  lived !  I  have  lived ! "  he  cried  in  a  sort  of 
savage  rage.  "  I  have  known  the  joy  of  throwing  my- 
self on  social  conventions  and  breaking  them  like  glass. 
I  have  had  the  courage  to  seize  hold  of  what  I  wanted 
and  devour  it  while  the  appetite  was  strong.  That  is 
harmful  to  the  digestion,  you  say.  Damn  your  laws 
of  digestion!  A  good  mouthful  is  worth  a  belly-ache. 
To  creep  along  all  your  life  with  your  head  bent 
down  for  fear  of  cracking  it  against  some  over- 
hanging beam — what  hideous  cowardice!  Thank  God! 
I  never  was  a  coward  like  that.  To  live  in  the 
sunshine  with  an  umbrella  over  your  head  for  fear  of 
feeling  some  water  on  your  shoulders — what  a  dog's 
life!  I  never  did  it.  Well,  you  say,  you  live  now  with 
your  hand  stretched  out." 

A  great  pity  filled  me  for  this  soul  in  torture  trying 
to  reason  itself  right  in  its  life-course. 

"  My  friend — my  dear  friend,"  I  said  with  energy, 
"  don't  say  that.  It  hurts  me.  It  is  I,  not  you,  who 
live  on  charity.  You  brought  into  the  dawn  of  my  old 
age,  new  duties,  new  sentiments  for  which  I  thank  you 
with  all  my  heart." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Yes.  I  understand  you,"  he  continued.  "  You  are 
one  of  those  weaklings  that  civilization  makes,  who 
search  happiness  among  women  and  children.  I  am  a 
man,  wholly  a  man,  conqueror  not  conquered.  I  was 
never  meant  to  be  chained  to  one  spot  even  by  the  most 
flattering  sentiments.  But  look  at  me  now.  Is  there 
any  fate  viler  than  mine?  A  child  has  subjugated  me — 
the  dimpled  hand  of  a  girl-baby. 

"  My  wife  was  not  mine  a  week  before  I  could  have 
quitted  her  without  a  sigh.  Why  didn't  I  do  it?  I  felt 
a  little  spite  against  you.  You  had  been  very  uppish 
with  me  for  a  long  time.  Oh,  I  saw  it  all,  though  I 
never  let  on.  And  I  kept  her,  because  I  did  not  want 
to  send  her  back  to  you.  That  is  also  why  I  treated 


A   BROKEN   SPIRIT  309 

her  well  enough,  in  keeping  for  myself  as  much  liberty 
as  I  could.  And  she,  with  her  insipid  affectations  of 
religion,  felt  it  a  point  of  honor  to  play  the  Griselda. 
I  have  never  really  known  whether  she  loved  or  only 
tolerated  me.  Then  the  little  one  came,  but  I  have  told 
you  about  her,  and  how  my  real  slavery  began." 

"  Don't  talk  like  that,  I  beg  of  you." 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  said  ironically,  "  I  should  rather  call  it 
my  renaissance,  or  my  resurrection.  I  know  all  your 
ideas — feminine  ideas.  But  listen  to  me.  There  is  not 
a  sentiment  that  has  crippled  so  many  souls,  shed  so 
many  tears,  broken  so  many  hearts,  ruined  so  many 
lives,  kindled  so  many  wars,  spread  so  much  disaster 
everywhere,  as  love.  And  there  is  this  devilish  thing 
about  it  that  we  always  think  there  is  something  noble 
in  losing  ourselves  in  another.  For  a  woman,  it  is  a 
necessity  to  lose  herself  this  way.  Hers  is  the  task  to 
sacrifice  herself  for  the  race.  But  why  should  we  accept 
her  definition  of  love?  Why  should  we  muffle  ourselves 
in  the  faded  illusions  which  she  is  always  steeping  in 
some  new  dye  to  make  them  look  brilliant  ?  I  am  speak- 
ing abominations  to  you.  Well,  that's  because  I'm, 
not  you.  Your  laws  are  not  my  laws.  Liberty  is  my 
law.  What  you  call  good  is  not  good  to  me,  it  is  evil. 
And  when  I  do  what  you  call  evil,  something  sings  in 
me,  and  tells  me  that  it  is  good." 

He  was  terrible  at  this  moment,  his  eyes  rolling  wildly, 
his  hand  lifted  as  if  he  would  strike  a  death  blow.  His 
lips  seemed  like  the  mouth  of  a  serpent  emitting  poison. 
I  felt  the  uselessness  of  all  argument  with  this  soul  in 
revolt,  which  felt  the  sting  of  the  iron  he  had  riveted 
upon  himself. 

"  What  is  religion,"  he  went  on,  "  but  a  confession  of 
weakness  or  malady  in  the  soul.  And  what  is  love  but 
another  malady,  which  we  do  not  try  to  cure  but  to 
prolong.  I  wish  to  be  cured!  Without  this  cursed 
malady  I  should  have  left  my  wife  and  all  this  domestic 
cowardice,  that  is  no  more  suited  to  me  than  to  the 


3io        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

eagles  of  the  air.  I  should  still  be  a  man,  not  crippled, 
ruined  for  life.  Never  again  shall  I  feel  the  icy  air  of 
winter  whip  my  face.  I  am  not  one  of  those  anaemic 
creatures  that  tremble  when  the  north  wind  blows.  It 
was  made  for  my  lungs — that  north  wind,  and  I  have 
sunk  so  far  that  I  can  contentedly  fill  them  with  chim- 
ney-smoke! Come,  you  called  yourself  my  friend. 
Prove  to  me  that  you  are.  Tear  me  from  this  slavery. 
Break  the  chain  of  my  daughter's  love  for  me.  It  is 
the  last  chain  that  throttles  me.  O  my  God,  who  can 
give  me  back  my  lost  strength,  the  iron  energy  in  an 
iron  body ! " 

At  this  moment  the  cry  of  a  child  reached  our  ears. 
We  turned  around  hastily.  The  little  one,  running  after 
us  as  fast  as  her  little  legs  could  carry  her,  had  stumbled, 
fallen  and  hurt  herself.  We  saw  blood  on  the  distorted 
little  face,  pitifully  lifted  from  the  ground.  He  was 
at  her  side  in  a  moment.  How?  I  don't  know.  These 
marvels  happen  from  time  to  time,  to  mock  our  material 
theories  and  make  us  see  the  superhuman  force  of  a 
great  emotion.  It  is  as  if  the  soul  had  received  an 
electric  charge,  and  passed  it  into  the  feeble  body  to 
give  it  back  its  strength.  He  held  the  child  in  his  arms. 
His  face  had  become  human  again — radiant. 

"  It  is  no  use,"  he  murmured.  "  Here  I  am,  a  will- 
ing slave  again." 

With  these  words,  he  trembled.  The  crisis  had 
passed.  He  very  nearly  let  fall  the  child  whom  I  took 
from  his  arms.  I  supported  him,  almost  carrying  him 
to  the  house,  where  his  strength,  as  if  it  had  been  but 
a  great  effort  of  the  will,  entirely  left  him.  Abby 
helped  me  to  put  him  on  a  couch,  from  which  he  was 
fated  never  to  rise.  He  died  two  days  later. 

His  death  gave  me  much  to  reflect  upon.  Violent 
and  erratic  in  his  feelings,  the  suppression  of  his  desires 
must  have  often  appeared  an  outrage  to  him,  and  led 
him  to  adopt  a  code  of  morals  in  which  desire  was  the 
only  guide  to  action,  and  moderation  seemed  to  him 


A   BROKEN   SPIRIT  311 

weakness.  That  he  must  often  have  suffered,  I  have 
no  doubt;  but  I  believe  that,  of  the  two,  his  wife  had 
suffered  the  most. 

She  never  complained  to  me ;  but  there  was  in  the  per- 
fect effacement  of  her  life,  her  silence,  her  devotion  to 
her  religion,  traces  of  suppression  just  as  marked,  which 
in  her  sensitive  temperament  indicated  a  sharper  degree 
of  suffering.  She  had  taken  refuge  in  religion  as  one 
takes  shelter  in  a  storm.  She  had  learned  to  accept  her 
let.  Was  her  resignation  a  fall?  Resignation  is  not 
always  a  virtue.  It  is  as  often  the  cowardly  abandon- 
ment of  the  best  that  is  in  us  in  order  to  live  in  peace 
with  what  is  mediocre.  Did  her  duties  weigh  heavy 
on  her?  I  do  not  know.  She  performed  them  without 
complaint.  Hers  was  one  of  those  natures  profoundly 
moral,  which  make  the  stable  element  of  our  civilization. 
Misguided  by  passion,  she  had  for  a  moment  hesitated 
on  the  path  of  rectitude — and  all  her  life  she  had  felt 
that  this  hesitation  was  a  blot  on  it.  No  other  course 
of  action  could  have  resulted  happily  for  her.  She  had 
none  of  those  false,  sentimental  ideas  about  the  divine 
right  of  passion  which  lead  astray  so  many  weak  heads. 
She  would  never  have  had  the  baseness  to  gild  a  wrong 
in  order  to  make  it  pass  for  gold.  Suffer?  Yes,  she 
could  do  that.  A  greater  than  she  had  suffered — the 
Divine  One.  She  turned  to  religion — became  devout, 
calm,  serene,  grave.  She  was  not  always  consequential; 
she  made  her  little  mistakes  like  the  rest  of  us,  but 
one  felt  that  she  could  be  trusted,  that  she  was  not 
one  to  be  blown  here  and  there  by  the  wind  of  caprice. 
She  knew,  with  all  her  heart,  that  passion  cannot  be 
made  a  law  of  life,  but  that  duty  is  the  only  fundamental 
guide.  She  warmed  her  heart  in  the  love  of  her  chil- 
dren on  earth,  and  of  her  God  in  heaven.  That  sufficed 
her. 

When  I  began  to  know  her  well,  she  interested  me 
by  her  character.  I  had  loved  her  beauty,  her  fresh- 
ness, her  gaiety.  They  were  gone.  I  could  never  love 


312        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

her  again  in  the  old  way.  But  the  sentiment  which  she 
awakened,  though  much  colder,  was  permanent.  We 
were  friends  now. 

She  bore  her  husband's  death  with  a  tranquillity  which 
was  not  indifference.  She  had  forced  herself  to  find 
much  that  was  admirable  in  him  and  had  succeeded. 
"  He  was  a  good  father,"  she  said  to  me  one  day,  "  and 
he  wished  to  be  a  good  husband;  and,  on  the  whole,  I 
think  he  was.  I  don't  know  whether  I  can  make  you 
understand  exactly — but  there  was  a  grain  of  folly  in 
him,  a  sort  of  mania  for  liberty.  He  could  not  bear  con- 
tradiction, nor  the  slightest  appearance  of  force.  I 
soon  learned  that.  I  had  a  sincere  friendship  for  him, 
and  that  is  not  so  exacting  as  a  passionate  love." 

She  was  right;  and,  perhaps,  marriages,  to  be  per- 
manently happy,  must  settle  at  last  into  this  condition 
of  companionable  friendship,  wholly  free  from  illusions, 
and  full  of  mutual  forbearance. 


CHAPTER  XV 

BOOKS  AND  TRAVEL 

BUT  if  the  wife  bore  the  loss  of  her  husband  calmly, 
poor  little  Eda  was  almost  crushed  by  her  father's 
death.  It  seemed  to  age  her  ten  years.  But,  little  by 
little,  nature  and  time  brought  their  healing,  and  she 
became  once  more  sound  and  strong.  She  seemed  to 
redouble  her  affection  for  me,  as  if  fearing  to  lose  me, 
too.  We  became  almost  inseparable  companions  during 
our  hours  of  leisure.  When  the  two  boys  were  old 
enough  to  commence  their  book  education,  she  was 
eager  to  help  me  teach  them,  that  we  might  have  more 
time  for  our  daily  reading;  for  I  had  early  commenced, 
either  to  recount  or  to  read  to  them,  the  great  master- 
pieces of  the  world,  in  order  to  enlarge  for  them  the 
little  sheltered  corner  of  it  which  we  inhabited. 

John  Bunyan  had  his  place  in  these  readings;  for 
there  is  so  much  poetry,  so  many  profound  truths  in 
this  old  classic,  that  it  is  a  pity  to  relegate  it  to  the 
top  shelf  of  the  library.  It  ought  always  to  be  within 
reach  of  the  fingers  of  the  young,  in  spite  of  its  ob- 
solescent theology.  Do  we  reject  the  beautiful  fables 
of  Greece,  because  we  no  longer  offer  sacrifices  to  Ju- 
piter? How  many  times  I  have  encouraged  my  little 
family  at  the  threshold  of  a  difficulty  by  saying: 

"What!  Are  you  in  the  clutches  of  Giant  Despair? 
Do  you  mean  to  let  him  crunch  your  bones  ?  " 

Children  dearly  love  the  world  of  fable  and  fiction, 
and  modern  education  does  them  a  great  wrong  in 
wishing  to  substitute  for  it  only  the  naked  truth.  There 
are  beautiful  truths  which  insinuate  their  way  into  these 
little  brains  prettily  clothed  in  the  sparkling  veils  of  the 

313 


3H        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A  RECLUSE 

fairy  world.  As  for  Don  Quixote,  he  was  a  veritable 
feast  for  them.  In  our  walks  together,  we  often  hu- 
morously employed  the  extravagant  language  of  chiv- 
alry, borrowed  from  the  famous  knight,  or  from  Wal- 
ter Scott.  What  thoughtless  and  healthy  peals  of 
laughter  rang  through  the  forest  at  little  Bob's  "Avaunt, 
vile  caitiff!"  his  pretty  blonde  head  thrown  back,  in 
his  hand  a  willow  branch  in  place  of  a  sword,  in  all  his 
tiny  body  the  attempt  to  reproduce  the  haughty  or 
threatening  air  of  a  chevalier,  or  a  brigand. 

How  many  times  we  transformed  ourselves  into  ex- 
plorers ;  and  so  many  countries  and  so  many  climes  were 
mingled  in  our  northern  wood,  that  it  was  like  an  en- 
chanted one.  I  steeped  myself  again  in  this  pure  stream 
of  youth,  and  felt  my  life  rich  beyond  expression.  Old- 
fashioned  books,  you  will  say,  and  not  much  read  now, 
these  which  I  have  mentioned;  yet,  I  pity  the  child 
who  has  not  once  looked  at  the  world  through  the  eyes 
of  Walter  Scott.  We  can't  read  him  after  our  first 
youth  is  past  with  that  perfect  abandonment  which 
conies  with  innocence;  but  it  is  good  to  turn  back  to 
him,  from  time  to  time,  at  any  stage  in  life.  What 
lessons  of  honor,  courage,  purity,  we  can  draw  from 
this  world  in  which  the  odor  of  forests  perfumes  the 
air,  instead  of  rose  water;  where  love  is  not  an  insidi- 
ous poison  undermining  courage  and  virility ;  where  pain 
is  frankly,  proudly  accepted  as  an  inevitable  element 
in  life.  Bravo,  Walter  Scott  1 

We  had  fine  heroic  days  with  Plutarch,  too.  As  for 
Addison,  the  girl  who  has  once  read  him  with  pleasure 
is  saved  from  the  follies  of  her  sex ;  and  my  Eda  loved 
Addison. 

So  passed  our  days,  full  from  dawn  to  darkness.  I 
taught  Eda  French  and  German,  and  as  she  showed  a 
real  talent  for  acquiring  languages,  I  yielded  to  her 
entreaty  to  teach  her  Latin.  And  in  all  this  time  of 
quiet  happiness,  one  tiny  cloud,  alone,  rose  above  the 
horizon.  As  Eda  grew  into  maidenhood,  I  saw  that 


BOOKS  AND   TRAVEL  315 

my  Aleck  was  setting  all  his  brave,  faithful  heart  on 
her.  Did  she  know  it?  Certainly.  What  woman  does 
not  know  that  she  is  loved?  And  did  she  love  him  in 
return  ?  No,  and  there  was  the  cloud.  Did  she  not  even 
like  him?  Oh,  yes,  very  much  indeed.  And  she  had 
other  admirers?  Scores  of  them;  but  she  cared  noth- 
ing for  any  of  them.  Aleck  had  no  rival. 

Then  the  old  question,  What  shall  I  do  with  her? 
began  to  torment  me  again;  and  I  determined  to  travel 
with  her  for  a  year  or  two,  in  order  to  see  what  solu- 
tion to  Aleck's  problem,  absence  and  an  entire  change 
of  scene  might  bring.  To  be  sure,  he  was  about  twelve 
years  her  senior,  but  he  was  in  the  fresh  vigor  of  early 
manhood  and  had  not  wasted  his  strength  in  dissipa- 
tion ;  and  he  was  so  entirely  superior  to  most  young 
men  of  his  age,  that  I  could  think  of  nothing  better  for 
her  than  to  join  her  young  life  to  his,  in  mutual  re- 
spect and  love. 

But  I  did  not  wish  to  take  her  abroad  before  she  was 
sufficiently  mature  to  profit  by  her  travels.  The  story 
of  the  German  gosling  that  flew  across  the  Rhine  and 
came  back  a  goose,  is  the  history  of  all  immature  trav- 
elers. They  boast  a  cosmopolitanism,  which  is  noth- 
ing but  a  profound  indifference  to  all  countries,  and  a 
general,  dissolution  of  nobler  sentiments.  This  is  very 
different  from  the  cosmopolitanism  which  embraces  all 
nations  in  a  more  perfect,  more  intelligent  love.  The 
first  cosmopolite  is  a  man  without  a  country ;  the  second 
is  a  man  of  all  countries. 

At  nineteen,  one  is  ordinarily  still  too  young  to  travel 
with  entire  profit;  but  Eda  had  received  an  excep- 
tional training;  and  I  thought  her  mature  enough  to 
travel  with  advantage.  I  thought  it  best  to  see  Amer- 
ica first,  because  after  having  enjoyed  the  wealth  of 
associations  in  those  old  countries  whosa  very  soil 
speaks  a  human  tongue,  the  mute  landscapes  of  the  new 
world  seem  a  little  monotonous  and  dull. 

We  skirted  first  the  Pacific  Coast  from  Vancouver  to 


316        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

San  Diego,  and  it  was  a  perfect  delight  to  me  to  note 
the  fresh  joy  of  this  beautiful  girl  unspoiled  by  the 
artificial  life  of  cities.  She  would  have  been  the  most 
agreeable  of  companions  for  anybody.  Nothing  incon- 
venienced her ;  accustomed  to  long  tramps  in  the  woods, 
where  she  must  encounter  all  sorts  of  obstacles  to  easy 
walking,  she  seemed  not  to  know  that  dust  and  mud 
existed.  She  was  simple  in  her  manners,  without  being 
awkward,  naive  without  being  ridiculous;  she  was 
keenly  interested  in  everything  that  she  saw,  but  never 
obtruded  her  interests  where  she  thought  they  were  not 
shared.  She  was  magnanimous  and  sympathetic  in  a 
sweet,  fluid  way  that  made  itself  felt  without  being  em- 
barrassingly noticeable;  and,  rarest  of  all  virtues  in  a 
woman,  she  was  capable  of  silence  in  the  right  place; 
so  that  one  could  enjoy  his  impressions  with  her  in  that 
incommunicable,  subtle  personal  way  which  belongs  to 
solitude;  and  she  could  express  her  pleasure  in  fit  terms 
without  employing  meaningless  and  ridiculous  superla- 
tives. I  hate  to  talk  with  a  woman  who  calls  everything 
"grand"  or  "dear." 

We  saw  the  snow  on  the  summit  of  Popocatepetl. 
We  ate  mangoes  in  Maximilian's  gardens  at  Cuerna- 
vaca;  we  walked  under  the  mighty  cypress  trees  of  the 
Montezumas;  we  looked  out  on  the  St.  Lawrence  from 
the  citadel  of  Quebec ;  we  walked  in  the  grassy  meadows 
of  Acadia;  and,  at  last,  we  set  sail  for  Europe. 

I  did  not  intend  to  make  of  these  years  of  travel, 
years  of  idle  pleasure,  but  of  active  pleasure.  I  wished 
to  free  my  girl  from  provincialism;  let  her  see  that 
wherever  she  might  go,  she  would  find  a  ceaseless  force 
impelling  the  human  mind  to  activity.  Art,  literature, 
history,  music,  occupied  our  leisure.  I  chose  the  great 
representative  cities  of  Europe  to  tarry  in:  Paris,  Lon- 
don, Edinburgh,  Rome,  Venice,  Naples,  Berlin,  St. 
Petersburg.  I  avoided  as  much  as  possible  a  long  stay 
in  a  large  hotel,  for  the  reason  that  they  are  all  alike, 
and  one  seems  to  be  traveling  in  a  cage,  shut  up  with 


BOOKS  AND   TRAVEL  317 

the  same  restless,  chattering  crowd,  all  looking  through 
the  bars  at  a  new  nation.  I  preferred  to  get  out  of 
the  cage  and  see  the  people  face  to  face  in  the  smaller 
pensions,  where  one's  own  countrymen  are  rarely  found. 

Of  all  the  cities  in  which  we  stopped  for  any  length 
of  time,  Edinburgh  and  Naples  pleased  us  the  most, 
and  two  cities  can  hardly  be  more  different.  That  I 
should  love  my  own  Auld  Reekie  was  very  natural.  I 
had  her  blood  in  my  veins.  But  Eda  loved  her,  too, 
history  and  literature  supplying  the  lack  of  personal 
souvenirs.  She  re-read  the  "  Heart  of  Midlothian,"  and 
sat  through  a  service  in  St.  Giles's  Cathedral.  We  re- 
cited Scott's  apostrophe  to  Edinburgh  from  the  summit 
of  Blackford  Hill,  looking  out  on  the  gray  city,  bathed 
in  the  morning  light. 

At  Naples,  we  rented  an  apartment  of  four  rooms, 
and  my  girl  undertook  to  keep  house  with  the  aid  of  a 
little  Italian  woman.  She  commenced  the  study  of 
Italian  with  a  mature  woman,  a  native  of  Florence,  and 
during  her  lesson  hours  in  the  early  morning,  I  went  out 
for  a  walk  in  the  Villa  Nazionale  overlooking  the  bay. 
These  solitary  walks,  in  which  all  my  life  seemed  to  un- 
roll before  me,  were  not  the  least  delightful  hours  I 
passed.  Seated  on  one  of  the  benches  in  the  park, 
under  a  cloudjess  sky,  the  bay  before  me,  at  my  feet, 
on  the  sand  tiny  ants  tracing  zigzag  lines  here  and 
there,  I  seemed  to  dilate  and  absorb  all  the  life  around 
me,  sentient  and  insentient.  The  trembling  patches  of 
sunlight  on  the  rough  tree  trunks,  the  waving  shadows, 
the  splashing  of  the  water  in  the  fountains,  the  daisies 
with  their  white  crown  and  golden  heart,  the  soft  grass 
with  its  varying  shades  of  green,  the  delicate  blue  mist 
which  veiled  the  distant  shores  of  the  bay,  the  sparkle  of 
the  blue  water  under  the  perfect  sky — all  this  pene- 
trated me  with  a  delicious  tranquillity ;  I  seemed  to  drink 
in  rich  deep  draughts  of  life,  and  to  see  its  sunset  hues 
more  brilliant  than  the  hues  of  dawn. 

But  I  had  other  hours  full  of  joy  with  my  Eda.    It 


318        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

seemed  to  me  that  I  had  never  so  fully  possessed  he\, 
never  so  perfectly  known  her,  as  now,  when  we  were 
all  in  all  to  each  other.  Her  beauty  made  her  welcome 
everywhere,  and  she  had  her  adorers  among  these  in- 
flammable sons  of  the  South:  some  of  them  even  went 
so  far  as  to  ask  her  i?  marriage  a  few  hours  after  hav- 
ing met  her. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
TEMPESTE  D'ANIME 

ONE  evening  after  an  experience  of  this  kind,  we  were 
sitting  on  the  balcony  which  looked  out  on  the  heights 
of  Posillipo,  and  the  bay.  The  night  was  superb  with 
all  the  languorous  beauty  of  a  Southern  summer.  A 
young  man  and  a  girl,  both  dressed  very  fantastically, 
were  singing  in  rich  clear  voices  a  popular  song,  "O 
Sole  mio,"  down  in  the  street  below  us.  I  was  smoking 
a  cigar,  my  feet  resting  on  the  low  railing  that  enclosed 
the  balcony. 

Eda  drew  her  chair  up  close  to  mine,  and  putting  her 
arm  around  my  neck  and  her  pretty  head  on  my  shoul- 
der, she  said  to  me: 

"  Papa  George,  I  am  not  home-sick,  but  I  should  like 
all  those  whom  we  love  to  be  here  this  evening — 
mamma  and  the  boys,  and " 

She  hesitated. 

"  And  Aleck,"  I  added. 

"  Yes,  and  Aleck.  Why  doesn't  he  write  to  me, 
Papa  George?  He  has  never  sent  me  so  much  as  one 
line :  and  in  his  letters  to  you  he  never  writes  my  name. 
I  think  that's  so  queer.  Do  you  think  that's  quite  rea- 
sonable or  just?  I  was  always  nice  to  him,  and  since 
I've  been  here  I  always  send  my  regards,  when  I  write 
to  mamma,  and  I've  even  sent  him  quite  a  number  of 
post-cards  and  he  doesn't  pay  the  slightest  attention  to 
them.  Now,  one  of  the  first  things  you  taught  me, 
Papa  George,  was  never  to  receive  the  slightest  favor, 
no  matter  what  it  was,  without  acknowledging  it  with 
thanks.  Did  you  forget  to  teach  Aleck  that,  or  is  it 
only  for  girls  ?  " 

319  . 


320        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

"  Eda,  you  are  not  a  little  girl  any  more.  You 
are  a  charming  little  woman.  Now,  be  frank  with 
me.  I  know  that's  the  hardest  thing  to  ask  of  a 
woman " 

"  Papa  George !  Papa  George !  Take  care !  When 
wasn't  I  frank  with  you?" 

She  lifted  her  head  from  my  shoulder,  and  taking 
my  chin  in  her  hand,  looked  steadily  into  my  eyes. 

"  Yesterday,  when  you  were  tearing  the  letter  which 
you  had  just  received,  and  told  me  it  was  nothing  at 
all." 

"  Yes,  but  that  was  because  I  was  so  ashamed  to  see 
myself  asked  in  marriage  by  a  man  who  had  never 
spoken  to  me  but  once.  I  am  not  a  prude.  You  know 
I  am  not,  but  I  can't  make  you  understand  the  kind  of 
nausea  or  disgust  that  seizes  me  when  I  know  I  am 
loved  by  a  man  for  whom  I  don't  care  the  rap  of  my 
finger.  Once  I  remember  when  I  was  playing  games 
with  some  strange  children,  a  boy  kissed  me.  I  was 
furious,  and  scratched  him  like  a  tiger.  He  still  bears 
the  marks  of  my  nails,  and  likes  to  tease  me  by  calling 
it  a  souvenir  of  me." 

"  What  a  cold  little  heart ! "  I  said,  jestingly. 

"  Ah !  you  know  so  well  that  it  isn't.  There's  a  world 
of  love  locked  up  in  me  ready  to  burst  forth  for  the 
great  Somebody,  who  doesn't  seem  to  be  in  a  hurry  to 
come  along  with  the  key.  But  he  must  be  like  you  and 
papa.  Do  you  know,  sometimes  I  think  that  I  shall 
never  meet  him.  You  two,  my  two  heroes,  make  all 
other  men  look  so  little  in  comparison." 

"  And  Aleck,  doesn't  he  have  a  tiny  corner  somewhere 
in  your  heart?" 

"  On  the  same  level  with  you  and  papa  ?  O,  no !  no ! 
a  thousand  times,  no." 

"  Did  he  ever  tell  you  that  he  loves  you  ? " 

"  No,  but  I  know  that  he  does.  And  that's  funny, 
too:  but  it  does  not  vex  me  to  have  him  love  me;  for 


TEMPESTE   D'ANIME  321 

he  knows  very  well  that  on  the  day  he  tells  me  that 
he  loves  me,  it's  all  over  with  our  friendship." 

I  was  a  little  piqued  by  her  tone.  I  loved  Aleck  sin- 
cerely. I  knew  his  Scotch  fidelity,  his  big  heart,  his 
quick  intelligence. 

I  threw  away  my  cigar.  I  wanted  to  talk  with  her 
seriously. 

"  See  here,  little  one.  I  said  to  you  a  moment  ago 
that  it  was  difficult  for  a  woman  to  be  frank.  Sound 
your  heart  well,  and  tell  me  why  you  wish  to  hear 
directly  from  Aleck,  if  you  do  not  love  him?" 

"  But  I  didn't  tell  you  that  I  didn't  love  him.  I  mean 
simply  that  I  don't  want  to  marry  him.  I  don't  love 
him  that  way." 

"  Very  well,  you  aren't  going  to  be  forced  or  coaxed 
to  marry  him.  Be  sure  of  that.  Nor  need  you  marry 
anyone  if  you  prefer  to  live  single.  I  have  known  some 
very  charming  old  maids,  whose  lives  have  been  so  full 
of  service,  whose  big  hearts  have  escaped  from  the  lit- 
tle circle  of  maternity  to  warm  and  comfort  hundreds 
of  little  children's  hearts,  so  that  I  have  thought  it  would 
have  been  a  pity  if  they  had  ever  married." 

She  laughed  in  a  nervous  way,  then  replied  in  her 
charmingly  coquettish  manner,  "  No,  no,  no — my  heart 
isn't  big  enough  to  be  a  foundling  asylum.  I  was  made 
to  love  in  a  very  narrow  circle.  I  could  love  desperately : 
I  feel  it  in  me.  Don't  you  think  that  there  is  a  great 
difference  between  a  simple  feeling  of  companionship, 
and  that — how  shall  I  describe  it? — that  entire  loss  of 
yourself  in  another?" 

"  Yes,  but  I  believe  now,  what  I  didn't  believe  at  your 
age,  that  the  feeling  of  companionship  is  the  surest 
foundation  for  happiness  in  marriage." 

"  Papa  George !  fie !  for  shame !  " 

She  pushed  me  away  from  her  with  an  expression  of 
extreme  disapproval,  as  if  I  had  just  uttered  a  blas- 
phemy. 


322        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

"  Yes.  I  understand,  Eda.  When  the  blood  boils 
and  the  pulse  beats  fast  in  the  presence  of  a  beloved  be- 
ing, it  seems  impossible  to  believe  that  we  can  ever  be 
indifferent  in  the  same  presence.  But  passionate  love 
is  a  dream  out  of  which  marriage  awakens  us.  We  see 
clearly  wide  awake  now;  and  are  in  a  rage  of  hate  and 
contempt  over  being  deceived.  We  would  like  to  crush 
the  idol  that  we  have  adored." 

"  Papa  George,  have  you  ever  loved  passionately  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you  were  deceived  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  My  poor  papa,"  she  stroked  my  face  as  she  talked. 
"And  you  are  so  good,  so  noble.  You  were  made  for 
the  supreme  happiness,  and  you  have  missed  it." 

"  No,  Eda — I  have  known  it  in  its  purest  intoxica- 
tion, and  I  have  escaped  the  long  agony  of  being  chained 
alive  to  a  dead  love.  I  regret  nothing." 

"  No,  Papa  George,  you  are  not  quite  frank  now. 
You  are  talking  as  I  did  when  I  was  a  child  and  the 
bee  stung  me:  do  you  remember?  You  pitied  me,  and 
I  said  it  didn't  hurt.  I  was  so  angry  to  think  it  dared 
sting  me.  I  believe  I  even  said  that  I  liked  it,  didn't 
I?" 

"Yes,  you  did,  bless  your  brave  little  heart." 

"  No — I  am  not  brave,  when  it  comes  to  feelings  of 
the  heart.  If  I  were  deceived,  where  I  loved,  I  should 
die  of  it.  And  I  can't  think  you  are  entirely  right  about 
the  love  changing  so  sadly.  Papa  and  mamma  were 
quite  happy,  and  papa  was  like  me,  he  had  fire  in  his 
veins.  If  he  had  been  disappointed,  he  would  have  left 
mamma  in  a  moment.  He  would  not  have  remained 
chained,  as  you  say,  to  a  dead  love,  he  who  was  so 
keenly  alive.  Of  course  mamma  is  another  story.  She 
is  so  calm.  I  don't  think  she  was  ever  capable  of  losing 
herself  entirely  in  another.  She  might  very  well  con- 
tent herself  with  your  so-called  companionship.  It  is 
funny,  isn't  it,  but  do  you  know,  I  never  in  the  world 


TEMPESTE   D'ANIME  323 

could  speak  to  mamma  about  love.  It  seems  to  me  that 
she  would  not  understand,  and  that  I  should  be  doing 
something  bold  and  immodest  to  speak  to  her  about  it. 
But  you,  you  understand  me,  perfectly,  in  spite  of  all 
your  frightful  ideas  of  love,  cooled  by  an  old  age,  that 
is  not  yet  yours." 

I  let  her  chatter  away  without  interruption.  I  felt 
the  immense  distance  of  years  that  separated  us.  She 
was  very  young;  I  seemed,  just  now,  to  myself,  very 
old.  Why  uselessly  try  to  see  with  the  same  eyes?  It 
is  destined  to  be  perpetually  renewed — this  enchanting 
moment  of  youth,  and  it  is  very  wrong  of  us  who  are  old 
to  burn  all  this  glittering  gauze  and  these  dazzling  false 
jewels  in  the  white  fire  of  our  experience.  If  we  could 
succeed,  what  desolation  would  result!  A  world  of 
celibates,  among  whom  the  laughter  of  children  is  never 
heard,  nor  the  low  murmur  of  passionate  tenderness! 
No,  it  is  far  better  as  it  is — this  natural  progress  of 
springtime  to  winter,  than  a  perpetual  winter  of  ice  and 
snow. 

Seeing  that  I  did  not  interrupt  her,  she  continued  with 
a  triumphant  little  laugh. 

"  Ah !  ha !  You  see  you  have  nothing  more  to  say, 
because  there  is  nothing  more  to  say." 

She  was  right.  There  was  nothing  more  to  say.  The 
great  mistake  that  old  age  makes,  is  to  wish  to  force 
its  bitter  experience  on  youth.  But  let  us  be  just  to 
both.  The  fruit  has  a  right  to  say  to  the  flower :  "  You 
live  to  produce  me";  but  it  has  not  the  right  to  say: 
"  Make  haste  to  drop  your  petals  and  exhale  your  per- 
fumes and  become  like  me."  There  is  marvelous  grace 
and  beauty  in  this  springtime  of  the  fruit.  Let  the 
flower  open  slowly  of  itself,  perfect  itself,  and  gradually 
change.  Every  age  has  its  own  peculiar  charm,  but  only 
on  condition  of  remaining  true  to  its  own  epoch: 
for  the  flower,  beauty  and  grace:  for  the  fruit,  savor, 
the  power  to  refresh  and  nourish,  and  to  give  promise 
of  a  continuance  of  life. 


324        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

I  did  not  sleep  well  that  night.  I  saw  that  the  in- 
evitable experiences  were  commencing  for  these  young 
hearts  I  loved,  and  that  no  experience  of  mine  would 
avail  them  the  least  in  the  world.  And,  after  all,  it  was 
a  weakness  to  wish  to  spare  them  the  pain  which  I  my- 
self had  learned  to  bless  as  the  source  of  power. 

By  dint  of  reasoning  in  this  way,  I  recovered  from 
my  inquietude,  and  was  content  to  let  things  take  their 
natural  course. 

One  morning,  passing  through  the  Villa  Nazionale, 
we  saw  a  crowd  assembled  near  the  fountain,  and,  at- 
tracted by  curiosity,  hastened  to  the  spot.  The  crowd 
opened  a  way  for  us,  and  permitted  us  to  see  the  object 
of  attraction.  It  was  a  man  who  had  committed  sui- 
cide, and  he  lay  on  the  ground  in  a  pool  of  blood. 

Eda  turned  pale  as  death,  and  I  felt  her  arm  tremble 
in  mine. 

"  Terrible !  terrible ! "  she  said  in  a  low  trembling 
voice,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "And  the  world 
is  so  beautiful,  life  so  glorious !  " 

A  daily  paper  gave  a  brief  report  of  the  suicide,  along 
with  other  suicides  of  the  same  character,  under  the 
headline : 

"  Tempeste  d'anime." 

She  brought  the  paper  to  me  and  silently  pointed  to 
the  article.  When  I  had  read  it,  she  said: 

"  When  I  saw  him  this  morning,  something  awfully 
solemn  came  over  me,  and  I  said  to  myself:  Poor 
wretch!  You  shall  not  die  without  having  given  some 
good  impulse  to  another  life.  I  shall  be  braver,  calmer, 
more  generous,  and  a  wholly  better  woman  for  having 
seen  you  lying  dead  there." 

The  story  was  the  old  one  of  passion  and  despair, 
of  folly  and  ardor  carrying  the  day  over  duty,  the  fierce 
hunger  for  happiness  scorning  the  thousand  quiet 
avenues  of  it,  and  staking  its  all  on  the  possession  of  a 
heart. 


TEMPESTE   D'ANIME  325 

"  Papa  George,  I  see  now  that  it  is  not  good  to  love 
like  that.  I  was  talking  nonsense  the  other  night.  It 
is  a  thousand  times  better  to  sleep  and  wake  with  grief, 
till  time  wears  it  away,  than  to  rush  desperately  into 
eternal  darkness.  Life  is  good.  I  want  to  live;  and 
don't  you  think,  dearest,  that  we've  had  enough  of 
Naples  now  ?  " 


CHAPTER   XVII 

LOOKING    AT    PICTURES 

WE  went  to  Rome,  Florence,  Venice,  where  we  gave 
a  great  deal  of  time  to  looking  at  pictures.  Eda  had 
already  some  acquaintance  with  the  character  of  the 
old  masters  from  my  collection  of  photographs.  It 
gave  me  a  genuine  pleasure  to  listen  to  the  expression 
of  a  taste  not  spoiled  by  premeditation,  or  the  reading  of 
art  criticism. 

She  very  quickly  distinguished  her  interest  in  a  pic- 
ture because  of  its  history,  from  her  interest  in  it  as  a 
work  of  art,  and  leaving  aside  dramatic  action,  ethical 
teaching,  historical  fidelity,  went  straight  to  the  beauty 
and  vigor  of  the  representation,  as  it  appealed  to  her- 
self. It  goes  without  saying  that  she  was  not  always 
in  accord  with  the  stars  and  double  stars  of  her  guide- 
book; and  that  they  were  sometimes  her  despair,  until 
I  said  to  her  one  day :  "  Never  mind,  my  girl,  what 
the  paper  and  ink  say.  See  with  your  own  eyes  and  be 
frank  with  yourself.  Don't  be  afraid  to  confess  that 
you  can't  see  a  picture  in  smears  and  blotches,  no  mat- 
ter what  it  is  labeled." 

"  Oh,  no,  that  doesn't  bother  me.  I  begin  even  now  to 
respect  those  old  cracked  coffee-colored  canvases  of 
the  early  Christian  painters:  for,  at  least,  they  did  try 
to  paint  for  people  with  normal  eyes,  who  see  things 
whole,  and  not  smeared  and  in  pieces.  They  didn't 
think  that  a  head  hasn't  a  face ;  they  put  eyes  and  nose 
and  mouth  into  it.  They  respected  the  body  and  gave 
it  some  form.  But  it  is  Ruskin  and  that  lovely  little 
book,  "  Mornings  in  Florence,"  that  have  made  me  feel 
such  a  Pariah,  and  as  if  I  had  no  right  to  look  at  pic- 
tures, at  all.  And  I  did  try  so  hard  to  see  the  St.  Louis 


LOOKING   AT    PICTURES  327 

in  St.  Croce,  and  had  to  go  back  to  the  book  to  see  it. 
I  could  get  nothing  from  the  fresco  itself.  Do  put  me 
in  countenance  a  little,  and  tell  me  that  you  weren't 
enraptured  either.  And  I  had  an  opera  glass,  too,  you 
know;  and  did  just  what  he  said.  I  really  wanted  to 
see.  It  is  so  beautiful  to  have  a  genuine  admiration 
all  your  own." 

"  That's  it,  Eda,  all  your  own;  borrowed  admirations 
never  thrill  anything  but  the  tongue.  Ruskin's  little 
book,  as  you  say,  is  a  very  lovely  one,  and  the  writer 
himself  perhaps  the  most  inspiring  of  our  century,  but 
he  has  created  an  eruption  of  factitious  admiration  that 
he  himself  would  be  the  very  first  one  to  deplore. 
Giotto  was  an  artist  of  great  power  from  the  direct 
simplicity  of  his  work;  but  to  expect  to  see  in  him  all 
that  Ruskin  does,  to  expect  to  buy,  with  a  pair  of  opera 
glasses,  the  Ruskin  temperament,  the  Ruskin  eye,  is 
the  absurdest  thing  in  the  world:  and  ten  thousand 
people  may  look  at  Giotto's  St.  Louis  without  feeling 
the  emotions  which  stirred  Ruskin  when  he  saw  it. 
Why,  then,  be  ashamed,  if  he  leaves  you  cold  when  he 
warmed  the  poet  in  Ruskin?  When  you  can  bring  to 
art  his  knowledge,  his  vivid  interests,  his  passionate  ad- 
mirations, his  poetical  temperament,  which  surrounds 
everything  he  sees  with  the  radiant  light  of  sentiment, 
his  contempt  for  the  vulgar  shows  of  the  world,  for  its 
riches,  its  ostentation,  its  sensual  pleasures,  you  can 
hope  to  feel  something  of  the  sentiment  which  filled  him 
when  he  looked  on  Giotto.  It  was  not  the  artist's  work 
which  he  saw ;  it  was  the  life  of  King  Louis,  its  perfect 
chivalry,  the  poetry  of  its  courage  and  devotion. 

"  So,  my  daughter,  love  the  pictures  that  speak  to  you, 
though  they  may  be  voiceless  for  others.  Don't  get  into 
your  head  the  absurd  idea  that  you  can  know  art  by 
reading  criticisms  of  it,  instead  of  going  directly  to  the 
pictures  themselves,  to  see  how  it  goes  with  you  there. 
Don't  be  afraid  of  the  stars  and  double  stars  in  the 
catalogues,  and  think  yourself  in  duty  bound  to  be  en- 


328        THE   JOURNAL'   OF  A   RECLUSE 

raptured  wherever  you  find  them.  Make  your  own 
stars:  and  be  very  glad  if  one  picture  in  a  thousand 
gives  you  an  emotion  and  the  desire  to  see  it  again. 

"  If  the  admiration  which  many  of  the  allegorical  pic- 
tures of  the  old  masters  were  well  traced  to  its  source  it 
would  resolve  itself  into  that  very  ordinary,  complacent 
self-love,  which  the  admirer  feels  in  discovering  to  his 
satisfaction  the  secret  of  a  problem.  It  is  identical  with 
that  which  we  feel  in  translating  a  difficult  passage  in 
classic  literature;  or  in  studying  a  meaning  into  an  ob- 
scure line  of  Robert  Browning.  The  student  is  proud 
of  himself  at  having  so  much  intelligence :  and  confuses 
the  admiration  which  he  feels  for  himself  with  that 
which  he  thinks  the  object  of  his  study  ought  to  ex- 
cite. There  is  no  subtler  form  of  self-love  than  that." 

We  traveled  in  Switzerland,  Austria,  Germany, 
France,  Holland,  Russia,  until  we  began  to  feel  the 
power  to  enjoy  exhausted  in  us — and  to  stand  in  the 
presence  of  beauty  and  feel  no  thrill  from  it,  is  the  most 
humiliating  and  arid  experience  of  an  intelligent  mind. 

It  was,  then,  that  Eda  said  to  me  one  day : 

"  Papa  George,  I  am  very,  very  tired  of  being  a 
traveled  tramp,  aren't  you?  I  am  getting  hungry  for 
my  own  people,  my  own  country,  and  my  own  little 
corner  of  the  woods  near  the  bay:  aren't  you?  You 
may  talk  as  you  please  of  universal  fraternity,  but  there 
is  a  family  bond,  a  national  tie,  stronger  than  any  other ; 
don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Yes.  We  are  beginning  now  to  repeat  the  experi- 
ences, which  had  no  pleasure  or  value  except  in  novelty. 
It  is  time  to  go  home.  We  are  carrying  abundant  stores 
of  recollection  to  enjoy,  as  we  rest." 

If  I  had  had  the  least  doubt  in  the  world,  which  I 
hadn't,  with  regard  to  whether  she  was  one  of  those 
whose  mind  needs  continual  changes,  and  who  acquire 
from  their  travels  nothing  but  a  number  of  bizarre  tastes, 
that  make  them  discontented  at  home  and  the  despair 
of  their  friends,  her  home-coming  would  have  completely 
reassured  me. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

SEED-TIME    AND    HARVEST 

WHAT  a  holiday  it  was  for  us  all,  that  October  day 
of  the  home-coming!  The  great  European  galleries 
were  far  away,  but  all  out-doors  was  a  living  art  gal- 
lery;— white  clouds  curdled  against  the  perfect  blue, 
oaks  and  maples  aflame  with  color,  the  sun  shining 
softly  down  on  it  all.  What  warm  heart  beating,  what 
smiles  changing  into  tears  of  joy,  what  glad  cries  of 
mutual  pleasure,  what  an  aimless  going  and  coming,  and 
forgetting  of  what  one  started  to  do,  and  Abby  taking 
me  apart  to  say : 

"  You  have  brought  me  back  the  same  girl  you  took 
away.  You  have  not  spoiled  her." 

She  was  growing  prematurely  white,  no  trace  now 
of  the  rich  brown  tint  in  the  hair,  and  her  face  looked 
worn  and  thin. 

"  I  have  missed  you  both  very  much,"  she  said.  "  But 
you  will  see  that  I  shall  grow  young  again,  now  you  are 
back." 

She  kept  her  word.  In  a  few  weeks  one  would 
have  hardly  recognized  her.  The  tense,  worn  look  wore 
away  from  her  face;  little  by  little,  it  gave  way  to  an 
expression  of  unusual  sweetness.  Had  she  feared  that 
she  would  never  see  us  again?  I  do  not  know. 

To  tell  the  truth,  another  interest  was  absorbing  me. 
Aleck  had  been  working  enormously  during  our  absence. 
He  had  not  written  me  that  he  was  on  the  eve  of  a 
great  discovery.  Like  all  serious  workers,  he  had  his 
secrets  that  he  could  not  reveal,  any  more  than  the  tree 
can  upturn  its  roots  to  the  sun.  We  found  him  pale 
with  protracted  hours  of  study,  his  hands  blackened  and 
burned,  his  eyes  sunken,  his  face  thin,  but  luminout 

329 


330        THE  JOURNAL   OF  A  RECLUSE 

with  the  subtle  fire  of  thought.  Never  had  he  appeared 
to  me  so  virile,  so  handsome,  so  full  of  force ;  and  when 
these  two  beautiful  creatures,  Eda  and  he,  looked  at 
each  other,  after  their  long  absence,  and  I  saw  the  swift 
color  flame  into  their  faces,  and  their  hands  tremble  as 
they  touched,  I  knew  that  they  belonged  to  each  other; 
and  love  again  seemed  as  beautiful  and  glorious  as  in 
the  days  of  my  youth. 

If  I  were  a  novelist,  I  might  write  a  pretty  idyl  of 
the  progress  of  this  love  as  yet  unconfessed,  that  had, 
like  all  loves,  its  days  of  radiant  sunshine  and  of  misty 
gloom.  For  even  the  springtime  of  love  has  its  rainy 
days,  in  the  midst  of  its  odorous  flowers,  dewy  trass, 
and  enchanting  bird-songs. 

They  were  married  in  the  spring  following  our  re- 
turn. Aleck  built  a  beautiful  cottage  on  a  piece  of 
ground  which  I  gave  him — a,  lovely  incline,  looking 
down  into  the  bay. 

Eda  begged  me  to  go  to  live  with  them,  but  I  was 
inexorable. 

"  But,  Papa  George,"  she  cried,  her  sweet  eyes  brim- 
ming with  tears,  "  it  is  really  living  like  an  egotist  to 
stay  among  those  miserable  old  books,  when  you  might 
double  our  pleasure,  and  add  to  your  own,  I  know  it,  by 
coming  and  living  with  us.  Aren't  you  happy  with 
me?" 

"  Perfectly  happy,  little  one." 

"  Well,  and  I  am  happy,  too,  with  you :  and  don't 
you  see,  my  love  of  a  papa,  that  I  am  so  used  to  having 
you  about  me,  now,  that  I  can't  get  on  without  you? 
You  suit  me  to  a  T,  in  everything  you  say  and  do. 
Something  of  myself  leaves  me  when  you  go  away.  I 
have  only  half  my  joy,  half  my  wits,  when  you  are 
gone.  /  need  you!  I  need  you!  I  can't  be  weaned 
yet ! "  The  pretty  lips  trembled ;  she  laid  her  head  on 
my  shoulder,  and  cried  like  a  child. 

Yes,  she  loved  me,  my  daughter,  my  Eda:  and  she 
was  very,  very  dear  to  me.  For  a  moment,  I  felt  weak 


SEED-TIME   AND   HARVEST  331 

enough  to  wish  to  yield  to  this  sweet  insistence.  How 
beautiful  to  have  always  about  me  this  rich  heart,  this 
admirable  beauty  and  youth,  the  solace  of  my  old  age! 
But  it  was  only  a  moment.  The  egotism  of  old  age, 
living  like  a  parasite  on  the  sap  of  youth,  has  always 
seemed  nauseous  to  me.  And  if  ever  I  ought  to  keep 
my  independence,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  ought  to  keep 
it  now.  So  I  lifted  the  dear  head,  kissed  the  warm 
mouth,  saying: 

"  My  Eda,  you  have  sometimes  praised  my  good 
sense;  listen,  now,  to  what  the  good  sense  says.  You 
are  a  young  married  woman,  and  all  your  happiness 
depends  upon  the  harmony  which  exists  between  your- 
self and  your  husband.  I  am  glad  to  see  that  the  love 
between  you  is  not  the  intense  egotism  of  two  who  ab- 
sorb each  other:  such  a  love  as  that  ends  by  a  paralysis 
of  all  the  moral  faculties.  It  is  an  obsession  that  nar- 
rows and  subjugates  us;  yet  a  man  and  wife  should  be 
first  to  each  other.  What  role  have  you  offered  me? 
I  enter  your  house.  I  am,  at  first,  the  third  person, 
loved  by  both  of  you;  but  I  shall  become,  insensibly, 
either  the  second,  or  nothing  at  all.  From  day  to  day, 
an  insensible  attraction  will  diaw  you  nearer  either  to 
him  or  to  me.  I  shall  become  either  more  and  more 
isolated  near  you,  or  more  and  more  the  companion  of 
your  leisure,  the  sharer  of  your  thoughts ;  and  one  day, 
of  us  three,  there  will  be  one  who  is  solitary.  But  that 
role  of  solitude  belongs  to  me,  not  to  your  husband:  or 
your  marriage  is  a  failure.  And  I  can  best  play  the 
role  in  my  own  house.  I  have  had  you  all  to  myself 
for  »two  years.  I  will  not  share  you  with  anyone  in 
the  same  house.  In  your  home,  your  husband  must 
be  the  supreme  attraction.  You  are  united  to  a  supe- 
rior man,  of  whom  you  may  justly  be  proud.  He  has 
a  clear,  active  mind  full  of  noble  curiosity;  and,  one 
day,  his  solitary  researches  are  to  enrich  the  human 
race.  You  are  to  be  his  helpmate  in  the  best  sense  of 
the  word,  and  his  source  of  joy  and  relaxation.  You 


332        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

must  spare  to  him  his  leisure  as  much  as  possible;  take 
upon  yourself  those  annoying  domestic  details,  which 
eat  up  a  man's  time  and  give  him  nothing  but  worry 
in  return.  I  should  be  ashamed  of  you,  if  you  were 
not  willing  to  do  this.  There  are  so  many  women  who 
have  but  one  idea  of  marriage.  It  is  to  procure  for 
themselves  an  advantageous  milieu,  in  which  they  can 
shine  by  the  brilliancy  of  their  beauty  or  their  intellect. 
They  are  deadly  parasites  that  suck  the  life-sap  from 
many  a  noble  man,  and  condemn  him  to  life-long  ob- 
scurity and  slavish  toil.  That  is  man's  punishment  for 
having  said  to  woman:  You  were  born  to  lean  on  me. 
They  do  lean  on  him,  but  so  heavily  as  to  crush  him, 
by  the  demands  of  their  enormous  vanity  and  their 
cold-hearted  selfishness.  I  have  given  you  the  best  pos- 
sible education,  so  that  you  might  have  an  interior 
wealth,  from  which  you  could  draw  in  time  of  need. 
I  do  not  wish  you  to  live  the  narrow,  jealous,  exacting 
life  of  the  heart,  alone,  in  which  so  many  women  live 
exclusively;  and  just  as  your  husband  has  his  world  of 
thought  and  study  into  which  you  cannot  fully  enter,  so 
you  will  have  your  individual  tastes  and  interests,  which 
will  make  life  well  worth  living,  when  his  lips  are  not 
touching  yours.  For  to  make  him  happy,  and  to  be 
happy  yourself,  you  must  in  some  measure  learn  to 
live  alone,  to  stand  firmly  on  your  two  feet,  without 
leaning  on  anyone.  You  must  learn  to  digest  your 
private  griefs  into  better  thought  and  finer  action ;  for 
you  must  not  expect  to  grow  old  without  knowing 
pain.  Nobody  escapes  it:  it  lies  either  behind  him,  is 
present  with  him,  or  lies  in  ambush  in  the  future.  And 
never  forget  this:  The  sorrows  of  a  beloved  woman 
have  a  charm,  in  the  commencement,  for  the  man  who 
loves  her.  They  give  him  the  best  of  excuses  for  lav- 
ishing on  her  the  caresses  with  which  his  heart  is  run- 
ning over.  He  adores  her,  in  this  complete  abandon- 
ment, in  which  she  turns  to  him  alone  for  her  conso- 
lation. He  savors  these  tears,  the  traces  of  which  he 


SEED-TIME   AND   HARVEST  333 

kisses  away.  But  not  for  a  very  long  time.  A  man 
is  not  made,  like  a  woman,  to  lose  himself  long  in  the 
griefs  of  another.  He  wearies,  he  yawns>  he  looks 
askance  at  the  door,  then  at  his  watch,  and  finds  an 
excuse  for  escaping.  Health,  vigor,  the  sunlight  of  the 
mind,  have  stronger  and  more  permanent  attractions  for 
him.  Then,  don't  abuse  your  husband's  sympathy.  Use 
it  sparingly,  that  it  may  be  genuine.  Don't  be  deceived 
by  the  maxim  that  '  pity  is  akin  to  love ' ;  for  pity 
often  implies  a  sentiment  of  superiority,  a  little  shade 
of  contempt,  which  in  the  end  is  fatal  to  love;  or, 
pressed  too  far,  changes  to  weariness. 

"And,  Eda  dearest,  one  thing  more.  Guard  in  your- 
self as  nature's  richest  gift  to  woman — the  mother  in- 
stinct, the  love  of  the  arms  of  little  children  around 
your  neck.  There,  love,  don't  cry;  don't  think  I  mean 
to  quietly  slip  away  from  your  life — I  couldn't,  if  I 
tried.  I  shall  see  you  every  day.  Isn't  your  house 
built  so  that  I  can  wave  my  hand  to  you  from  my 
front  yard?  That  signal  to  you  will  be  my  sunrise.  I 
shall  go  back  to  my  books  and  my  work,  warmed,  ex- 
hilarated. 

"  There,  love,  are  a  great  many  counsels  from  a  man 
who  has  never  known  the  joys  of  domestic  life,  except 
at  another  man's  hearth;  and  who  has  seen,  at  times, 
why  the  fire  doesn't  burn  well,  there.  One  forgets, 
sometimes,  to  throw  new  logs  on  to  the  dying  embers, 
and  the  room  grows  chill,  where  two  sit  shivering  whose 
love  once  made  the  warmth  of  it." 

I  was  silent,  then,  and  smiled  at  her,  caressing  her. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  thoughtfully,  "  a  great  many  coun- 
sels, a  great  deal  of  good  sense,  my  love  of  a  papa, 
and  I  am  so  young,  so  ignorant,  so  foolish,  that  per- 
haps I  don't  well  see  the  reach  of  it  all.  But  there  is 
one  thing  that  I  see  clearly,  and  that  is  that  you  have 
suffered.  That  hurts  me,  just  as  it  did  that  night  in 
Naples,  when  we  talked  on  the  balcony.  Do  you  re- 
member? " 


334        THE   JOURNAL   OF  A   RECLUSE 

"  Yes." 

"  Tell  me,  again,  that  you  are  happy,  now ;  that  all 
that  suffering  is  past,  like  les  neiges  d'antan." 

"  Yes,  Eda,  all  past ;  and  far  from  regretting  the 
sorrows,  I  would  not  for  much  have  wanted  their  disci- 
pline." 

"  Must  one  suffer  in  order  to  think,  to  know,  to  feel 
deeply?" 

"  I  think  so." 

"  But  you  do  not  wish  me  to  suffer  ? " 

"  No." 

"  Explain  that  to  me." 

"  It  is  not  necessary  for  everybody  to  think,  and 
know,  and  feel  deeply." 

"  Very  well,  then,  I  am  to  be  satisfied  with  happy 
ignorance;  and  I  mean  to  show  you  that  I  can  love 
you  tenderly,  faithfully  all  my  life  without  getting  into 
trouble  with  Aleck,  or  threatening  our  happiness.  But 
I  shall  give  you  your  full  liberty,  you  dear,  delightful 
Recluse.  I  commence  to  divine  that  solitude  is,  after 
all,  your  real  life.  But  I  shall  always  be  within  call. 
I  am  always  at  home  to  you,  and  when  your  books 
grow  mute  and  won't  talk  to  you  any  more,  I  shall  do 
wonders  to  suffer,  in  order  to  know  enough  to  talk  to 
you,  so  that  you  won't  yawn." 

She  has  kept  her  word,  my  beautiful  Eda.  She  has 
overwhelmed  me  with  love  and  care  without  being  im- 
portunate or  wearisome:  and  my  old  age  passes  like 
those  lovely  autumn  days  veiled  in  luminous  haze,  when 
the  air  is  heavy  with  the  odor  of  ripening  fruits,  and 
the  forests  are  aglow. 


THE     END 


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